ANP POeMS 



BY 



ISm9H^ 





Class _?:SSQ7 
Book. ^^3 

Copyright]^? 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 



SHORT STORIES 

AND POEMS 

BY 

AMERICAN AUTHORS 



CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS 

BELLE TRAVERS McCAHAN 

A B. WOODWORTH 

CLARA McCORKLE MAC DONALD 

R. A S. WADE 

GRACE HEWITT SHARP 

DONALD L* SUTTON 

MRS. SAMUEL HEBRON BAKER 

V. L and E. D. WRIGHT 

BELLE MIDDLETON 

C. L. KRABER 

THOMAS WICKERSHAM 

L M. SOLEY 



COCHRANE PUBLISHING CO. 

NEW YORK 

J909 






LSofiARY of COr^iGRESS 
Tv/o CoDiea Recsived 

JAN 2 1909 

Oopyrif^nt tntry 
CLASS Ct XXc, Ho. 

■X-o- < <? ^ ^ 

COPY is. 



Cop3rnght, 1908, by 
COCHR-\NE PUBLISHING CO. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Defence of the Long Saut Betts 6 

Monday Mawnin* with Aunt Lucy McCahan ... 15 

An Apostrophe to the United States of America. . Woodwortk. . 23 

Adventures of the Christmas Angel Mac Donald. . 25 

Chris'mas Befo' de Wah Sharp 37 

Who is Great? " 45 

Evil Not the Reality '• 46 

The Worth While '• 48 

TheReal ... *' 49 

Resurrection " 50 

The Donkey and the Wolf Sutton 51 

The Sacrifice Baker 69 

Me Being Good 'Fore Christmas IVright. 79 

When the Cavern Gave Up its Dead Middleton.. . . 81 

The Chief of the Chase Kraber 91 

Coming to Watch Tacoma Grow Wicker sham . 98 

The Court House Cat " 100 

When I See Thy Child " 102 

The American Miners in Siberia Kelly 104 

Song of a Nome Pirate " 105 

Arctic Seasons " 106 

Maud Bonney *' 108 



The Shadow of the Rock SoUy. ....... 109 

Farewell to the Old Year " Ill 

Wishes for the New Year •• , 114 

The Lord's Prayer " 116 

Jess and I Wade 118 

AN%htinl865 *' 127 

Old Sumach •♦ .134 

The Home on the Hill •♦ 141 

The Old Dinner Horn " 148 



DEFENCE OF THE LONG SAUT. 



By Craven Langstroth Betts. 



[The defence of the Long Saut, as told in the pages of 
Parkman, is one of the most spirited episodes in the his- 
tory of New France. For thirteen days the Sieur Dollard 
of Doulac, with sixteen devoted companions of the gar- 
rison of Montreal and five Algonquin braves, defended 
the renowned Pass against the whole armed power of 
the Iroquoi? Nation, and though all were eventually 
slain, their defence so disheartened the savages that 
they gave up all hope of driving the French from Can- 
ada.] 

The Iroquois with wasting torch and cruel butchering 

hand, 
East, West and North resistless sweep across JNew 

France's land. 
Along Ontario's northern shore they range with none to 

check. 
And muster bands around Champlain to threat the young 

Quebec. 

Each hour some hut or hamlet flames— ^the foe strike 

everywhere ; 
The lumberer in the woods is slain while swings his ax^ in 

air. 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

From every savage girdle hangs some pledge of ghastly 

strife, 
Torn reeking from the quivering flesh beneath the scalping 

knife. 



Now, who would live out length of days nor court a tor- 
tured death. 

Must hasten to the palisades by stealth with bated breath ; 

The venturous couriers du hois all still and watchful go. 

The winter wild cats are less fierce than this blood-fam- 
ished foe. 



The Hurons from their villages like deer are hunted 

forth 
And hide within the trackless wilds that fringe the frozen 

North ; 
The Melicites to Tadousac the awseome tidings tell, 
Where every shrieking blast forebodes the Mohawk's 

murder yell. 

But to the fort at Montreal have crossed the champing sea, 
From Mother France a chosen band of youthful chivalry; 
And he, the proud young commandant with high-born, 

peerless port. 
Is Dollard, Sieur of old Doulac, the star of Louis' Court 

'Tis Dollard speaks to Maisonneuve, the governor of New 

France, 
While flashes round the council hall his proud and burning 

glance, 

6 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

"Had I one score of willing hearts to hold the narrow 
Saut, 

These prowling wolves of Iroquois would soon their mas- 
ters know. 

"Now, who will dare to stake his life upon a desperate 
chance ? 

Who'll earn with me a deathless name — ^who'll win re- 
nown for France ? 

Or will ye slink and cower still within your fortress wall, 

While o'er your desolated fields in flames your' roof -trees 
fall? 

"What I would ye send the tidings home that by a savage 

foe 
The royal lilies are besmirched and torn and trampled low ; 
The stock of Bayard and Navarre, of Conde and Dunois, 
Quail like a pack of well-whipped hounds before these 

Iroquois ! 

"Speak, fellow-soldiers, comrades, friends — who now will 

go with me 
To drive the painted devils hence, come death or victory ? 
In name of King and Christ's dear faith, let whoso will 

advance, 
And draw his blade to strike for fame, for DoUard, and 

for France." 

An instant's pause — then sixteen youths spring forth with 

martial glee ; 
Out flash their swords, at once they cry, "To death we'll 

follow thee!" 



SHORT STORIES AND POBMS 

They snatch the gun and corselet down, they seize the pike 

and lance 
Then throng the shore their muster cheer, "For Doltard 

and for France !" 

Forth leap the light canoes — they breast St. Lawrence 

swift and wide 
To where the stately Ottawa rolls down her wine dark 

tide, 
Yet still they stem the rushing stream, their paddles sweesp 

the flow 
Until they win the rugged rocks that hem the famed 

Long Saut. 

Tbey land within the pass's jaws— their lonely camp is 
made 

Beside the bastion's rough-hewn wall, a loop-holed pali- 
sade ; 

There, lined along the swarthy cliffs that bind the frothing 
sea. 

This band of New World Spartans hold their new Ther- 
mopylae. 

"Ho, yon canoes hold surely friends ! Tis they our red 

allies!" 
Right joyous ring the welcome shouts that round the camp 

fires rise. 
"'Tis Annahdtaha, famous chief, with forty Huron 

braves — 
Now cdmie, you cursed Iroquois-^come now aiid find your 

graves I 

8 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

"Ay, bere stands France f As hunters watch the moun- 
tain streams for game, 

They scan the rock-strewn, foaming pass, athirst for war 
and fame ; 

Yet, true Crusaders, night and morn to Christ they bend 
the knee 

Beneath the oriflamme of God, the peerless Fleur-de-Lis. 

"Arm ! arm ! — they come ! now strike for France ! the foe 

are fair in view ; 
The Iroquois, a thousand strong, shooting the rapids 

through !" 
Hurrah ! the muskets volley death ! a thousand yells reply ; 
A leap — a splash — three first canoes upturned go drifting 

by! 

"Vive, vive La France!" the paddles swerve — ^the redskins 

leap to land ; 
Their scalp-locks tossing in the wind, their tomahawks in 

hand ; 
Like wolves around a lone battue, to shore the Oneidas 

crowd ; 
They come, the bloodhounds of the Lakes, the Mohawks 

fierce and proud. 

In plumed and painted panoply the glade the warriors 
throng ; 

Each scalping-knife hangs glittering keen within its deer- 
skin thong; 

B^ide each quilted quiver rests an ash-bow tipped with 
horn. 

And round eath waist the wampum belt with leathern 
fringe is worn. 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

They rush — in vain! the dauntless band repel the fierce 

atttack, 
And many an eagle plume goes down in dust and bloody 

wrack, 
While storms from out the palisade to greet each fresh 

advance 
The Frenchman's stern defiant cheer, "For Dollard and 

for France !" 

Five days of stealthy, bold assault the stubborn French 

have stood, 
Till all the trampled sward is now besmirched with savage 

blood ; 
No sleep by night, no peace by day, the worn-out band 

have won, 
For hourly rings the piercing whoop and cracks the 

answering gun. 

Five days ! the Hurons, man by man, desert the leaguered 
walls ; 

Their haughty chief alone remains, for naught his soul 
appals ; 

With only four Algonquin braves, who to him constant 
stand. 

He fights beside the roaring Saut for France and Father- 
land! 

But yet, high o'er the closing din — the yell and crackling 

round. 
Bursts forth the war-cry of the French with hoarse, 

defiant sound ; 

lO 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

And still the Lilies flaunt the sky — still, as the foe ad- 
vance 

The muskets rattle to the cheer, "For Dollard and for 
France 1" 

Eight long days more! and yet around the fire-scathed 
palisade. 

The baffled, vengeful redmen throng the encircling forest- 
shade ; 

Eight hundred more of Iroquois adown the Richelieu 
sweep ; 

Now, gallants, look your last on earth — now must your 
loved ones weep I 

Pile high the blazing birch canoes against the timbers 

brown — 
Make one more rush, you Iroquois, for half your foes are 

down! 
While sore with wounds and spent with toil, and dazed 

for want of sleep, 
How worn the few survivors now who still the barriers 

keep! 

Oh, Blessed Mary! but how weak has grown their stal- 
wart cheer, 

As round that slope of blazing logs the boldest foes draw 
near; 

But far above the strife of death the banner streams on 
high, 

And while it waves, you Iroquois, some Frenchman lives 
to die! 

u 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Ay, by the Rood ! as 'tween the logs the Mohawks rttxA 

their way, 
There stand that stubborn handful yet, like hunted stags, 

at bay; 
"One cheer, my lads — La Nouvelle France ! one cheer for 

Ville Marie ! 
Then die like Frenchman to the last, for die you must 

with me !" 



'Tis Dollard's voice — he dashes forth — he hurls a hand- 
grenade ; 

Too weak — too weak the cast — it bursts within the pali- 
sade! 

Ah, God ! it scatters ruin and death ! midst blinding flash 
and roar, 

Fast through the charred and gaping wall the furious red- 
skins pour. 

Stand stoutly still, you desperate few, God's rest is large 

for all ; 
Now close with pistol, pike and sword, and round your 

Lilies fall! 
Spent, wounded, hopeless, overborne, front still the 

swarthy ring 
Where thirsty knives and tomahawks a thousand foemen 

swing ! 

Ay, staunchly round your banner close !-— all sternly back 
to back. 

They meet with sword the tomahawk, the knife with pis- 
tol crack; 



BF AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Still o'er the black and blinding smoke the pale blue Lilies 

dance, 
While fainter, hoarser grows the cheer, "For Dollard and 

for France !" 

And still the tufted braves go down, as falls the plumed 

maize 
Beneath the sturdy peasant's scythe across the furrowed 

ways ; 
Till maddened at their frightful loss, the whooping, 

crowding foe 
One close and deadly volley pour and lay the Frenchmen 

low. 

No— one stands yet — the sword-hilt dropped from out his 

nerveless hand; 
'Tis Dollard, of the snow-white plume, bold brow and 

lightning brand. 
He leans against the banner-staff, he lifts a last fond 

glance — 
Then falls with one death-throttled shout, "For Dollard 

and for France !" 

And o'er that smoking holocaust, the peace of God comes 
down; 

But why is raised no victor shout? — ^why spreads that 
sullen frown? 

Lo! heaped within yon blackened pyre, and strewed the 
sanguine plain, 

The whole Six Nations view dismayed their best and brav- 
est slain I 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



This night, ye nuns of Montreal, resume your ways of 
peace, 

And you, ye watchers at Quebec, take now from fear re- 
lease ; 

For ne'er was ampler, prouder deed, since Clovis lifted 
lance. 

Than that which hath been wrought to-day by these few 
sons of France I 

And pause in time, you Iroquois, and count your hundreds 
slain. 

Ere you in closing strife would cross the Frenchmen's 
path again ; 

How many, think ye, of your braves, will hunt the fields 
of blue, 

If every soldier of New France dies like these twenty- 
two? 



H 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



MONDAY MAWNIN' WITH AUNT LUCY. 



By Belle Travers McCahan. 



Aunt Lucy rubbed the suds off her black arms and 
carefully deposited the wet sheet, twisted into a great 
coil until it looked like a veritable cobra, into the nearby 
clothes basket, before she deigned to answer my ques- 
tion. 

Aunt Lucy was my laundress, and arrived every Mon- 
day morning in a combined state of dignity and depres- 
sion, until she partook of a second breakfast and "jes' a 
liT drap o' coffee, please, mam," when she usually un- 
bent and became talkative. 

But this morning the omelet and biscuits, together with 
the "drap o' coffee," had failed, and I knew from the 
way in which Aunt Lucy critically eyed a wet piece of 
linen before applying the soap that something of unusual 
importance had occurred to disturb her. 

"Dis no time to put out flow'rs," Aunt Lucy responded 
in reply to my appeal for her help. "Dis de da'k ob de 
moon." 

"Well, what has that to do with it?" I returned, insist- 
ently. 

"Dis de time to plant *taters and onyuns an* sich, when 
yo' wants things to b'ar fruit under de groun', yo' plants 
in de da'k ob de moon, an' when you' wants fruit above 
groun' yo' plants in de light uv de moon." 

15 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

"But these geraniums are already started, Aunt Lucy. 
I bought them potted, you see, and I want to transplant 
them along the driveway. Don't you think a row of scar- 
let geraniums along each side of the driveway will look 
pretty?" 

"Yas'm, dey luk all right, but yo' flowVs don* do no 
good Miss Miriam, 'cause deys too many trees 'round dis 
place. De roots uv de trees taks de suction from dem." 

"Do they?" 

"Yas'm," Aunt Lucy returned to her rubbing with 
increased vigor, while I occupied myself by bringing 
more of the fragrant-leafed geraniums from the veranda 
to the back yard, and with a trowel loosened the eartk 
from the pots. 

"Miss Boyah borr'r'd a bucket o' coal frum me," began 
Aunt Lucy, in recitative, without preliminaries, and I 
knew, as I dropped down upon the wash Iiouse steps and 
prepared to listen, that I had arrived at the reason of her 
discontent 

"An' I guv' 'er nice lump coal — dis wus back in de 
wintah — an' she nuver fotch hit back 'till yis'day morn- 
in' and den she sont hur gal over wif jes de scrapings uv 
'er coal, all full of grass an' durt, an' I over to hur back: 
do' an' I say, *Miss Boyah, what y'all treat me dat a-way 
fo' ? Didn't I guv yo' nice lumps an' yo' sends me jes^ de 
scourin's uv yo' coal?' An' Miss Boyah's gal a-standin' 
dar an' she up an' say, *What yo' a-comin' ovah heah 
a-talkin' to my maw dat a-way f o', yo' ol', black nigger ?" 

Aunt Lucy made an ominous pause and then resumed, 
with some heat, "Den I tuck 'er down. *I say, *Yas'm, 
I'se black, an' Fs proud uv it ; my blood's puah, when 
yo* is yallah. lek yo' is, yo* know dey's a mixtry some* 

i6 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

whar*. Yo's nothin' but mongrel/ Den Miss Boyah she 
'low I'd better not cum 'round dar wif no disinuations, 
and say som'body been throwin' stones at dey-all's goat. 
Now I ain't nuver has throw 'd at dat ol' goat, but I wush 
som'body would, an' kill him, too. Yas'm I does." 

Aunt Lucy spent her wrath for a moment over the 
linen upon her washboard, rubbing with such energy 
that I feared for the woof of the fabric. 

"I say, *Miss Boyah, y'allus been gittin' yo' washin' 
watah frum my cistern; don' yo' step yo' foot ober dar 
fo' no mo'. Min' dat !' Miss Boyah up an' 'low she'll git 
all de watah she want." 

Aunt Lucy rubbed the soap on the tablecloth under 
surveillance, and said, slowly, with emphasis: 

"If Miss Boyah come ober dar an' lif de trap do' uv my 
cistern, I'se gwine push hur in." 

"Aunt Lucy!" I cried, in some alarm, not doubting 
that she would keep her word, "why, that would be a 
dreadful thing; you would be put in jail, you know, 

and " I paused in my effort to make the situation 

properly impressive. 

"Well'm, I specks I w'uld, but Miss Boyah gwine 
git no mo' watah out'n my cistern. She can ketch hit 
off'n her ruff in a rain barr'l, if she need any; 'er clo's 
don' luk white nohow. Mista' Boyah he don' cum ober 
aft'a supper an' he says: 'Now, yo' an' my wife is sis- 
t'rs in de chu'ch and sist'rs in de lodge an' I hates fo' 
to think of y'all qua'l'n, ses he. *Well, suh,' I ses, *I 
cain't git 'long wid that 'ooman o' yo's.' 'Well'm de truf 
is,' he say, *I can't hardly git 'long wif 'er myself.' " 

Aunt Lucy smiled broadly, and chuckled low in her 
throat in thus scoring a triumph over the enemy. 

17 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

"Did ya'll want yo' flow'rs out dis mawnin*, honey? 
Soon as I gits de boil on an' wrench dese hur in de tub, 
I helps yo\" 

The telling of the story had served to open the throttle 
to Aunt Lucy's trouble and her vexation had evidently 
escaped with the steam from her washtub. I sat idly in 
the sun while Aunt Lucy finished her process of "wrench- 
ing," which, as Aunt Lucy did it, proved a more appro- 
priate term than rinsing, and I listened in amusement 
while she apostrophized the cat, taking her usual excep- 
tions to his sleek, fat and lazy appearance. 

"Yo' needn't be layin' dar blinkin' yo' eyes at me, yo^ 
luks lak ha'f dorg an' ha'f cat. Yo's so big an' lazy, 
why don' yo' wuk fo' yo' livin' same as I duz? Don' 
sharpen yo' claus on my clo's basket. Go git yo' a log ef 
yo' wants to sharpen yo' claus. Yo' rolls yo' eyes jes' lak 
ol' Jerry Po'tah when he tryin' to mek er'body think he 
all-mighty good. Jes' lak he done las' summah, when he" 
cows got in my co'n, jes' as hit wus in de milk all fine, 
an' et mos' ha'f uv it. I cotch 'em in de mawnin' an' 
done sont fo' de marshal, an' ol' Jerry he cums dov/n 
dar 'way in de fo'noon er rollin' he' eyes mighty politey, 
an' he 'low he mighty sorry, an' he jes' tek he cows away 
fo' dey bodder me eny mo'. I jes' say 'hoi' on, dar, 
please, suh, mister, dese cows is under arrest.' Yas'm! 
or Jerry say, he sho' pow'rful sorry, but hit in de 
natcher uv de cow to lak co'n, an' he sorry to fin' my 
fence so ol' hit won't tu'n 'em, an' he bow he's haid an' 
roll he's eyes an' luk lak he all dey is in de wurl'. *Well, 
suh,' I ses, *hit in de natcher uv ol' 'ooman lak me to 
lak milk, an' I's gwine to keep dese cows 'twell Lgits 
'nuf milk t' pay me fo' dat co'n,' an' I tells him ef he 

i8 



BY ^AMBRrCANMUTHX>RS 

■ step his foot in my do'yard Vse, gwinc' scald him. Yas*m ! 
An' he ain't daah do hit. Nor'm! He nuverwus hones' 
an' las' wintah he got up in de chu'ch an' say he got a call 
to preach, an' dey call an' uxtra meetin' o' de chu'ch t' 
see ef he sho' nuf got a call from de Lawd, an' Sist'r 
Po'tah say dat dey no need t' gwan widde meetin', 'cause 
she sho' de Lawd 'bleeged t' know bettah dan to call 
Jerry. Sist'r Po'tah say dat nigger don' know one wurd 
fnim annoder when hit cum to readin' an' how he gwine 
t' guv out the Scriptures, dat whut she wan' t' know, 
an' she say he don' mek a livin' now, jest' putt'r 'roun' a 
li'l, dat she suppo't hur chil' an' him,, an' she ain't no way 
gwine to suppo't him ef he gwine be a preacher. An' 
mo' dan dat, Sist'r Po'tah jes' tell de minister right out 
dat ef he guv Jerry de papers to preach she gwine leave 
Jerry an' she gwine leave de chu'ch. De preacher he 
ax us all to sing a hym' 'twell he tek hit under dissidera- 
tion, an' presently he guv out dat his opinion is dat de 
Lawd nuver call Brer Po'tah. Co'se / ^waze; hit wusn't 
de Lawd, ef ol' Jerry heah som'bawdy callin' him. Hit 
de devil, 'cause I don' cotch 'em myself." 

"Caught him-^with the devil, Aunt Lucy?" 

"Yas'm, I did. He at de dance las' Chuesday night. 
I seed him." 

"Were you there, Aunt Lucy?" I questioned. 

"Nor'm. 1 wan't dar. Me an' Sist'r Po'tah a-comin' 
home frum pray'r meetii>', an' we jes' step in to see who 
dar, an' dar Jerry a-sittin' jes' lak a great bullfrog, with 
he eyes a-standin' out frum he's haid a-watchin' 'em. He 
no sho' nuf Mefodist nohow — he ust t' be a Babtist." 

"You are what one would .call , a genuine . Methodist, 
aren't you, Aunt Luey?" 

X9 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Yas, fna'm, I is, an* Tse a strict one, too; I 'tends t* 
my own bisness — I'se ready, honey." 

Aunt Lucy signified her readiness by drying her hands 
on her apron and filling her arms with the flowerpots. 

"I wants t' git throo' in time to go t* po' ol' Mist'a 
Junkins's funeral. He died yist'day mawnin'. I wus 
dar an' stop de clock myself at jes' five minutes pas* ten. 
an* de corpse is to be hurried dis' a f 'noon at two o'clock. 
De gran'chil'n tekin' hit mighty hard an* Miss John 
Junkins say she powerful *fraid in spite of all she kin do 
dat hur ol'st dau'tah gwine faint plumb 'way, she tekin' 
on so. Sist'r Junkins say she wush I w'uld cum early, 
'cause she know'd I'd had 'sperience an' hit comfortin* to 
have frien's uv de fambly he'p hoi' 'em if dey loose dey- 
selfs in dey grief. I say, 'Sist'r Junkins, we all lak de 
grass uv de fiel', dat to-day is an' t-morro' is cas* in 
inter de oven. Brer Junkins's a good man an* de Lawd 
cert'in'y pass him fru' de oven lak Daniel.* Law me, 
Miss Miriam, I faint when dey hurry my ol' man 'twell 
ev'bawdy think I nuver will come to, an* I holler *twell 
m' voice jes' play clean out on me an* dey haf* to ca*ry 
me back to de kerridge. I sho' did mo'rn.** 

Aunt Lucy heaved a sigh of contentment in the knowl- 
edge of thus having properly acquitted herself on that 
august occasion, and repeated, "Yas'm, I sho* did 
mo'rn," as she patted the earth around the transplanted 
geranium and sighed again, in the satisfactory recollec- 
tion of having left nothing undone which could discredit 
her in the eyes of the onlookers. 

"An* I still wears mo'rnin* yit f o* him ; dat is, I ain*t 
fo' ev*yday but I does on Sundays an* funerals an* sich. 
I reckon I ought t' be thankful do' dat I ain't de troub'l 

20 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS ^ 

dat po* Sist* Thomas has. Tears lak she nuver will git 
out'n mo'rnin'. Firs* hur ant died, an' she put on 
mo'rnin' a yur fo' hur, an' she had'n mo' an' tuck hit off fo' 
Sam Thomas hisse'f up and died, den she put hit on heavy 
fo' annoder y'ur, an' jes' las' Fall, hur sist'r's husband 
died an' now she got hit on ag'in an' hur veil de longes' 
dis time she uver has had. She tek on turrible at 'er 
sist'r's husband's funeral, an' we-all feel so sorry fo' po' 
Mis' Thomas, 'cause 'pears lak she hav' mo' trubble dan 
she can stan'. She say "pears lak Jim's death de las' 
straw ;' seem lak she couldn't guv' him up no way." 

*'Give up her sister's husband?" I questioned. 

"Yas'm ; she sho' did think a heep uv Jim. Whar' dat 
thing yo' diggin' wif ' honey ? Law me ! My back no good 
no mo' ; hit ust' t' be honey. I could wu'k all day in de 
cotton down in Tennessee an' I w'uldn't be tired lak I is 
now, when I does jes' one washin'. I's got a twitchin' 
dat goes all froo' me an' I don' res' good uv nights. But 
o' co'se I still keeps toodlin' 'roun'." 

"How old are you. Aunt Lucy?" 

"Lawd, honey, I dunno ; I's ol'. Now yo* mek dat hon- 
ery Jo watah dese flow'rs ; he' mos' too lazy to draw bref '. 
Mek him do it, my back got a twis' in hit ; I's too ol'." 

"You don't look old, Aunt Lucy ; you look as fresh as a 
lily." 

"Lawsy, honey, dat whut Brer Hen'sen don' tol' me 
las' Sunday." 

"Now, Aunt Lucy, are you and Uncle Henderson — " 

"Shoo' honey, I w'uldn't ma'ry him if he de onlicst 
man in de wurl'." 

"Why, Uncle Henderson has steady work at the Allen 
place, Aunt Lucy, and when he is dressed up and carriccr 

21 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

his caftCj he presents a dignified appearance that I have 
rarely seen equalled." 

"Yas'm, I knows Brer Hen'sen^s a stylish man." 

"Then really, he is an aristocrat, he belonged to the 
Glover family. Aunt Lucy." 

"Yas'm, I knows he did." 

"And just think what an impressive occasion the wed- 
ding would be, with you and Uncle Henderson as the con- 
tracting parties ?" 

"Aw, yo*s pbkin' fun, honey, L knows yo' is. If uver I 
w'uld ma'ry agin, dey's two things I sho' w'uld have." 

Aunt Lucy remained so long lost in thought, with trowel 
suspended, that it was necessary for me to recall her by 
word of inquiry. 

"What are they, Aunt Lucy?" 

"Brer Hen'sen's pra'rs are sho' powerful, an* he co*t 
scripture as fas' as de preacher hisse'f — " 

Aunt Lucy was pursuing her line of thought aloud. 

"What are the two things you would have providing you 
ever marry again. Aunt Lucy ?" I repeated. 

Aunt Lucy lowered the trowel and made a fresh on- 
slaught into the rich black earth as she replied, with 
marked solemnity and in a low, confidential tone : 

"Miss Mir'am, Is 'bleeged t' hav' a purple par'sol an' a 
puah gol' watch." 



aa-^ 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



AN APOSTROPHE TO THE UNITED STATES 
OF AMERICA. 



By A. B. Wood WORTH. 



Exalted Nation! at thy feet 
We place a tribute, fervid, meet. 
Foundations deep our fathers laid, 
With help from God thy structure made; 
Thy States secure ; may they be found 
Till time shall end, in Union bound. 



Let those who rule thy fame defend; 
The righteous cause with zeal befriend ; 
Then strive in light, mankind to lead; 
A world-wide peace devoutly speed, 
That battle's din may cease to sound, 
And all the fruits of peace abound. 

Between each race let reign good will; 
Each mind with useful knowledge fill; 
To worthy souls from other lands 
Extend thy strong, thy welcome hands. 
O'er land and sea thy flag shall wave, 
The type of all that's just and brave ! 

23 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Great Nation! May thy people all 
Forever heed thy trumpet call, 
For men of faith, with strength of steel, 
To serve in truth the public weal ; 
Who, acting Right, disdaining Wrong, 
Shall virtue's winsome path prolong. 

May thy fond children know thee well. 
Of thy rich bounties truly tell; 
With loyal love, with glad acclaim, 
Sound far and wide thy wondrous name ! 
May thy true grandeur never fail I 
Exalted Nation, thee we hail I 



24 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



ADVENTURES OF THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL. 



By Clara McCorkle MacDonald. 



In the late fire-lighted night, with the vines whispering 
against the windows, and a cat-symphony holding forth in 
the frosty, crisp air, I feel prone to force the growth of 
wings upon my shoulders (for I have oft approached 
being an angel) and swoop down upon any spot in the 
world that arouses my wonder and my interest. A mystic 
mode of travel, it is true, exempt from palace cars and 
unctious porters, and the thrill of uncertainty as to im- 
pending accidents ; devoid of stage-coach or rattle or dis- 
comfort; but when in my own little corner of the dear 
old world, with all my treasures and possessions close 
at hand; where every apartment, every object is fair to 
the eye of a home-lover, the wonder begins to stir in my 
heart as to what is happening here and there and ani- 
mates me with a burning wish to see the movement and 
feel the pulse of something out there remote from my 
own little corner. I think of white, enfolding wings with 
the speed of Thought and presently I am there. Thus 
I float through the wintry streets of a city, and look into 
bright windows and hear bells and music and laughing 
voices. The grayness of evening, the wind's sharp rush 
between abyssmal buildings, the swirl of light snow in 
the air, the gray ruts in the unswept districts, the clang 
and roar of cars through the smooth long streets, the 

35 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

pushing crowds seeing nothing ahead, ever in hot pursuit 
of the golden fleece, seekers, wanderers, embarked on a 
toilsome voyage pass before my eyes as in life; and my 
wings carry me swiftly where dwellers of modest,, quiet 
places wend their way; to where great throngs unnamed, 
so thickly do they swarm, are clamoring for bare life, astir 
at the slightest breath of Fate. Familiar, wornout pictures 
these, in every city ; but my wings convey me into scenes 
unfamiliar, too, and my eyes see things unportrayed in 
song or story — yet ordinary woes hold me. 

I view the desolation of a mother — her dead babe still 
folded to her breast, dumbly reiterating her vain prayer, 
her unutterable heart anguish. This little child, as pure 
and dear as the little one in the silk-lined basket-bed, 
rocked in the home of luxury, is so precious that no pov- 
erty can dim its beauty, though its little form ha3 never 
known the touch of silk and lace or delicate, fondling 
hands. While I clasp the tiny pallid figure to my breast, 
the tearless sobs of the mother sound in the barren room 
and shatter every barrier between class and kind, leaving 
human anguish bare-faced with itself — shorn of all cloaks 
of convention, distinction, civilization. Oh, it is not fair — 
it was all she had, this little factory mother, whose un- 
fathomable grief is in other hearts to-night, as desolate 
as hers ; in tender hearts that sigh against stronger, helpful 
ones, in hearts that have ached before, that throb under 
the shabby jacket and the lace corsage alike. But she is 
alone — and the awful woe of being alone; only a very 
small part of a great machine whose life must feec} on 
smaller ones. 

Can we, any of us, comprehend the aching dread that 
is experienced by them at times, dread of cold destitution, 

26 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

the frantic eagerness for the faintest light, the gasping 
relief with the slightest lifting of the burden, the poignant 
agony of the grief that sucks the last flow of life-blood, 
the last cruel cut of a merciless fate ? It is but a feeble 
war at best against the relentless force that crushes them 
from life. 

It is not fair, this torturing grief — and the bare little 
shelves yonder, and the cheerless hearth, while thousands 
of the golden discs are falling from only idle hands at this 
very hour; they laugh who can find no real joy of life, so 
exaggerated and false are the producers of this mocking 
joy. But they weep who can shed real tears to-night — 
yet it is not of refined anguish or gnawing remorse in a 
schooled heart I speak, but of another kind. 

None of this poor wretchedness affects her — she wants 
only the little one that is dead; and pictures ambrotyped 
upon her memory, of its pale infancy, every fresh day's 
new revelation, familiar visions stunning in their reality 
of its loved face arise at every moment in her tortured 
brain. Her future hope is vanished, an ephemeral joy. 
this one enveloping, ennobling love severed from her life 
like all else is withheld. Not even this tiny morsel — flesh 
of her flesh, heart of her heart, is left her after all the 
pain, the sacrifice, the sorrow — that too gone. 

Great compassion is in my heart and (being an angel) 
this sentiment takes shape — the little limbs move in my 
embrace, the tiny rose-leaf hands unfold, the eyelids lift 
and pretty eyes are disclosed and a sigh escapes the once 
sealed lips beneath my kiss. Oh, joy again unbound ! 

Young mother smile in your work-laden hours, laugh 
at the empty shelves, the cold grate; for here is the life 

2r 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

you loved restored, a hideous dream dispelled. This 
were I an angel with swift wings and sword of fire. 

An angel of the heroic type would forego a continental 
trip both for education and pleasure to follow out a doubt- 
ful obligation to a stuffy, unprogressive organization; to 
stay indoors and make little shirts, or distribute pamphlets 
in a silent immolation of everything fortunate and advan- 
tageous; and she would deny with a painful smile a 
peach-pink silk gown (like Rose in "Eight Cousins" did) 
because everybody in the world can not have one. But 
not to incriminate the heroic angel, someone else may 
give her the peach silk in charity's name, and the heroic 
angel can feverishly continue molding little shirts and 
never can be blamed for wearing the silk gown — unless 
she look too well in it. 

When there is more than enough joy and fortune in 
one's own life let it spread into others that they may ex- 
pand and be better, more helpful and happy, rather than 
gather their gloom unto us, to dampen, and darken and 
vitiate our lives, too. Why, if the sun cannot penetrate 
the cellar's remote recesses must we exclude the light from 
all the rooms and make them gray and cold, too ? 

God painted the heavens blue and the morning and 
evening skies he clothed in celestial colors. Why are the 
flowers so different in shape and color and texture? So 
perfect, so vivid, so full of splendor, all of nature — the 
blue violets, the pink roses, the golden, red and purple 
blooms we love? Yellow birds like sunshine, blue ones 
like the sky, green like the dense shrubbery and every hue 
of nature — then when He has set His bow in the heavens 
and filled the world with sunshine and joyous things for 

28 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

His beloved, why must they, His loved ones, seek the 
sordid, the dark ways of earth, the sombre colors, even 
to tint their lives with gray ? Freedom, gladness and light, 
first of all, are his gifts to us every one, spoken in every 
sweet breath of heaven, in every bird note, in every wild 
call, in the voices of sea and forest, in every gorgeous 
bursting of a flower into life and beauty, in every baby- 
laugh. 

God did not make all the birds gray and the flowers 
brown like earth that bore them. He did not veil the sun, 
or dull the stars. He gave color to eyes and hair. He 
tinted with sunrise youth's fair form, not to hide in 
gloom, but to radiate the soul's sunlight and create all 
about us, color, life, tone and joy. 

********** 

In the gray streets under the soft flurry of snow in 
whose white density every figure is shadowy, misshapen, 
I follow in the hurrying stream two jovial friends. 
Hours ago they left the oflice rooms, with their big desks, 
bookshelves, revolving chairs ; the telephones and electric 
bells and lights, the busy noises, the drone of business ; the 
click of typewriters and the frequent swish of the fair 
pompadours who operate them ; the acrid breath of dead 
cigars — left it all, this daily scene, at dusk switching oflf 
the lights and noiselessly sinking to the lowest plane, to 
the free air, the night throbbing with its possibilities, to 
breathe life again. 

And they swing into man-haunted places, reeking with 
smoke, humming with men's laughter and jests; meeting 
acquaintances, forming new plans, making trivial engage- 
ments, and observations — all with the enviable freedom of 
men to pass where they choose, discover all things, see 

29 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

the wheels of the world working ponderously, intricately, 
think and speak as they will, move unmolested, unques- 
tioned, anywhere — and still to be dumb before a pair of 
woman's eyes, to acknowledge reverently their ofttimes 
only sordid wisdom, to be confounded by the mysticism, 
the delicacy of her being, to find in the very heart of their 
clanging commercial interests no problem half so baffling 
as her many sided mind. 

And to-night with its millions of blinking lights, its 
thousands of luring voices, I flutter away with them. 
Ladies like fading dreams smile over their big muffs into 
the two bachelors' eyes and pass into the mists. 

Through places filled with girls of every type I, with 
the bachelors, note every shade of weariness, disappoint- 
ment and even exhilaration on the myriad pretty faces — 
everywhere that women are employed where their hours 
are extended on holiday nights. The two jovial friends 
at last go home to their quarters. Cosy chairs before a 
wide fireplace filling one end of the room invite to snooz- 
ing comfort. In its brick-work big Satsuma vases stand 
with pipes and guns. Pretty faces peep out of gilded 
frames from every nook; thick rugs stretch on the floor 
and big-pawed shaggy dogs pad ecstatically after the men. 
A piano and couch with pillows fill one side, and there is 
a table under whose now lighted electric lamp, books in 
confusion are scattered. It is a home they two have made 
and prided in, undesecrated by the presence of any 
woman. 

Paul, laying aside his coat, hat, gloves and cane, draws 
down the wide front curtains, shutting out the tiers of 
sparkling lights and hushing the deathless murmur of the 
midnight streets. Cold, cruel skies with their diamond 

30 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

clusters piercing and white look down ; not the love- 
breeding night with its pale stars' unblinking vigil and the 
amorous moon and wooing breeze — but bitter, hard. Jean 
lifts and replenishes the fire on the irons and then at the 
piano softly strums a tune, and Paul with his hands be- 
hind him stands with his back to the roaring flames and 
sings in a caressing baritone. 

"I feel," says Jean, turning at the piano, "as though 
someone else were in the room with us." But Paul who 
sees nothing, of course, says no, and Jean plays on. 

Presently both men recline in easy chairs to smokft, 
talking lazily of the affairs of the day, the different issues 
of their lives, their interests in general, though neither 
one speaks of his soul interests, if indeed suspecting each 
other of them; and, in their bachelor complacency, con- 
doling their hard fate and the minute income from their 
respective avocations, like all reaching out for more. Yet 
in the dressing-rooms beyond, each possesses an array of 
suits and linen fit for a millionaire, and neither refuses the 
other or himself a princely spread or any extravagant 
pleasure. They cannot find the outlet for so much that 
vanishes like dream gold before they have clutched it; 
they cannot exist like men in any other circumstances — 
they have not begun to climb Fortune's stair, the wheel 
of achievement has not started to revolve for them — but 
sitting here and thinking of it all is much more pleasant 
and gratifying than the climbing and pushing would be. 
The thought of marrying — if they even wanted to- — is a 
mooted question. Ye Gods ! be reasonable. Beggars mar- 
rying? Attributing this worthy self-denial to the heroic 
idea of waiting until they are able to sustain wives proper- 
ly, they reserve the privilege to save nothing that can be 

31 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

spent. But to-night something seems to stir the hard- 
shelled consciences of both ; each in glancing at the two 
most familiar faces in little gilt frames, very casually in- 
deed, murmurs something about Betty and Belle — but re- 
gret is not strong enough to be active, or to very deeply 
impress the crust of self-love on both hearts. 

Then I (being an angel) stand on the hearthrug be- 
fore them ; they see the firelight dimly as they reflect, for 
I stand between it and them, a nebulous barrier and say 
inaudibly, that they may feel without either knowing what 
the other has heard : 

"So you're sorry, old fellows, in your snug bachelorhood 
for the way you've treated Betty and Belle? To-day in 
my airy flight among the unfortunate I saw both, and 
guess where they are, if you can think of them long 
enough — I observe, you gaze intently upon their pictured 
faces — how much better to have the real ones near your 
own ; their eyes smiling up into your eyes. I am a wraith 
— the Christmas Angel knows your inmost hearts." 

Paul and Jean are deeply stirred, both intent upon the 
fire through my ethereal being which they believe to be the 
fragrant cigar smoke puffing from their half -smiling lips 
into blue wreaths and spires and cloudy pictures. 

"Betty looked very tired and rather friendless, Jean. 
She was standing behind a counter in a great big store 
where they do not treat girls very beautifully. Von Vul- 
ture regards all of humanity that comes in his way but 
little machines to coin his gold. Your Betty is one of 
them — the Betty of the old days with the smiling eyes and 
shining hair. She sighed so often, too, for she makes a 
good many mistakes I am afraid. Beside, she cared for 
you. You did not treat her fairly at all. And it's a new 

32 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

thing for her, being thrust into the midst of daily wage- 
earning. 

"But she had to do it and tries to be brave and even 
laughs, while all she earns must go into the expenses she 
must keep up. Her shoes are dreadful and coldest winter 
is impending. What will she do ? Can you tell me that ? 
She is losing her beauty and health and she's working too 
hard for nothing — " 

Jean leans forward alert and wide awake, staring 
through the cloudy light at a wistful little face in a gilded 
frame. 

"Now, Paul, about Belle. Sunk in your chair with your 
chin in your hand, youVe the picture of gloom. You 
weren't very generous to Belle. Belle won't confess to her 
difficulties — see her proud face in the picture there ? — ^but 
she has become desperate and I fear she is a trifle vain. 
She loves nice things as every girl does, and cannot have 
them. It is my opinion, though, that she'd make a better 
wife than actress. Oh, you heard that, didn't you, with 
less calm than you would like to admit? She is planning 
to go on the stage under the direction of young Noah 
Count. You know him well. O, what sweet prey is Belle 
for these ravens of vice! Paul and Jean, look at your- 
selves. You live at ease in these pretty rooms. Your in- 
comes you barely see. Everything is yours. You have 
not forgotten Betty and Belle, but you've drifted away. 
You cannot afford in your code of ethics to be attentive to 
only one girl, much less can the idea of marriage be har- 
bored. You cannot give up anything, so if you marry it 
will be but to gain more, not to give ; while those two girls 
who still think of you sometimes to the exclusion of every 
other, have given up almost everything; home life, ease 

33 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

and plenty, which they have lost, who will restore? It's a 
cold Christmas eve and you are cosily smoking expensive 
cigars, and poor Betty and Belle are alone in their little six 
by eight tyring to be happy. To-morrow morning will 
come perfumed notes and invitations from dainty ladies, 
and remembrances from them and acknowledgements for 
yours — and Betty and Belle ?" 

Being a shade I was not yet breathless, but I divined 
Jean and Paul growing restive. Paul draped one long leg 
over the other and pulled stronger on his cigar. 

"I wonder what's set me thinking of Belle to-night," 
said he, and Jean turning said : 

"By Jove! I happened to be thinking of Betty at this 
moment." 

Both laughed uneasily. Men don't believe in ghosts, 
though. "They say that about Christmas time — " began 
Paul tentatively. 

"I thought there was something or somebody in the 
room," said Jean in a low voice. 

"Oh, it's nothing, I'm sure," said Paul, convincingly. 
Then each persuaded the other that the two girls, each 
time they had seen them, looked very businesslike and 
spruce; had never voiced a complaint or a wish; seemed 
a little tired, of course, but then — " 

"Doesn't old Jerry act queer, Paul? Wagging his tail 
at the fire!" 

They had little ways, no doubt of amusing themselves 
that men knew nothing about; girls could have splendid 
times on so much less than it takes for a man; why, a 
girl can have the time of her life on a dollar — ^just one 
silver buck, mind you — lots of them do. They go to a 
matinee. 

34 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

"What the deuce does he see on the wall, Jean? Hc*s 
been doing that the whole time." 

A wondering silence of a moment. 

And they can have candy, two or three different kinds, 
and ice cream and a long street car ride and maybe a 
lunch — all in one free afternoon. Now a man could never 
do that. The girls surely never displayed any dissatis- 
faction — in short they were to be admired for their inde- 
pendence of spirit. 

"Say, put him out, Jean. He makes me nervous." 

"He is uncanny- — here Jerry, come on." Exit the 
beautiful collie with the tender eyes, who loved the stroke 
of my ghostly hand. 

It was noble of them to strike out for themselves, and 
very likely they enjoyed it and could earn their own liv- 
ing as well as any man could for them. 

At least Jean and Paul contented themselves in saying 
so. But something kept tugging at the closed doors of 
their better hearts. A meditative silence fell filled with 
pale blue smoke. 

"I say, Paul, to-morrow is Christmas, isn't it?" 

"I was thinking the same thing, old man. Why ?" 

"How about the girls to-morrow — you know. Betty 
and Belle" — for bachelors in speaking of the great sister- 
hood "the girls" at times to be understood must specify. 

"I was just wondering, Jean, maybe we could fix it to- 
night. By Jove, I'll try!" 

And striding to the telephone he turned his square 
shoulders to Jean and waited. 

"If they're in the same little place it's all right, old fel- 
low." What a note of expectancy vibrated in his deep 
tones. 

35 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

After a few minutes* anxious waiting a dialogue en- 
sued and both young men were talking through the tele- 
phone at the same time to two young ladies inconsiderately 
roused from their first sleep and both trying to listen and 
talk at once. 

At length when it was all arranged, a number of sur- 
prising pleasures and the receiver hung up on the last 
prolonged "Good-night," Paul said. "I feel pretty guilty, 
Jean. What a little thing pleases a girl !" 

And standing in one of the wide windows he raised the 
curtain and looked up at the stars; while out in the city 
faintly came the early chimes of Christmas day. 

He rattled the few lonesome coins in his pockets re- 
flectively, saying : 

"Well, the confectioner's will be open anyhow, and after 
to-morrow — " 

They made many worthy resolutions together, yawning 
and rubbing their heads, and seeing my mission ended, I 
floated lightly out of the window, and swiftly en route to 
my own fireside, brushed past the lofty apartment of Betty 
and Belle, where they were unearthing from their trunks 
long unused gala garments and talking in subdued happy 
tones together. 

I flapped my wings benevolently against the pane and 
flew away, for 

Though the world is merry and round and wide, 
I am glad to be home at my own fireside. 



36 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



CHRIS'MAS BEFO' DE WAH, 



By Grace Hewitt Sharp. 



"Miss Va'ginny, Chris'mas times ain't like dey used 
to be." 

"Why, Uncle?" 

" 'Cause people don't see no good time, like dey used 
to." 

"Uncle" was an old negro man. He was warming his 
hands over the kitchen fire, after having shovelled a De- 
cember snow off the walks. He had been a faithful 
friend and servant in this Missouri home for eighteen 
years. The girl, Virginia, was preparing raisins and 
citron for a plum pudding. Christmas was in the air 
and "Uncle" was reminiscent. 

"Yessum. I tells de young folks dat dey don't see no 
good times, like we did in slav'ry time. We begun savin' 
foh Chris'mas in de fall, an' if we didn't hab enough 
money, our white folks holp us out." 

"Uncle, you belonged to Mr. John Glover, didn't you ?" 

"No'm; 'twas Cunnel John Gloveh. He went by de 
name ob "Cunnel," 'cause he was Cunnel in de Mexican 
Wah. I'se heerd Cunnel Bradshaw (dat's my fatheh's 
mastah) and Cunnel Gloveh (dat's my mastah), sit an' 
talk 'bout de wah times. Dey tole a story; 'twas 'bout 

37 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

an American an' a British wus ridin*, an* dey met a 
nigga in he road. De nigga, he raised he hat an* de 
American he raised he hat an' bid him de time ob de day. 
De British says, *Does yo' speak to a nigga? De Ameri- 
can says, *I ain't gwine to let no man be better raised 
dan I is. If he is, I won't 'low him to show hit' Dat 
wus George Washington dey said said dat." 

Uncle, smiling and thinking, stood with his hat in both 
hands, looking over the stove, but seeing nothing. Soon 
he began, in his quiet, slow monotone, as if his thoughts 
were unconsciously vocalized: 

"Ole mastah died d'rectly after 'No-Nothin' Time'-— 
don't s'pects you'se heah durin' No-Nothin' Times," he 
said, glancing mischievously at the girl. 

"Ole mastah wus an auful strong 'No-Nothin'. He gib 
his chillun all good edecations. Dey all had business 
hades an' min's. Jim wus my age. He wus de leadin' 
one. We wus like brothehs. Dey ain't none of 'em out- 
stepped him. None ob ouh white folks nebber had 
nothin' widout gibbin' dey niggas, some. 

"De boys went to Marion College in Philadelphy, not 
fah from he'h. I went dah ev'r Saturday night to tote 
'em dey clean close. I rode de white mule, an' as hit wus 
too fah to git back, I stayed at Mr. Frisbie McCollough's. 
Dey an' ouh people wus very interment. Chris'mas all 
our boys cum home. Den de big pot an' de little wus put 
on. Black and white seed a good time den, Cullud folks 
had two whole weeks gib 'em jes' to hab fun in. Begun 
dancin' a week befo' Chris'mas an' nebber quit dancin' 
till New Yeah. Dance half de night at one place, den 
go an' dance out de res' ob de night at anodder." 

38 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

"Uncle, you didn't dance, did you?" The girl lifted 
her brows in mock horror. "You told me the other day 
that I would have black marks put against me for skip- 
ping over the floor." 

"Yessum, Miss Va*ginny," said Uncle, sadly "In Jem 
days I did. I'se bound to tell de troof. But I don't likes 
to se yo' make trouble fo' yo'self. 

"Chris'mas mohnin' we niggas wus up befc day. You 
see, de white folks roun' dah wus quality an' didn't git 
up 'fo' day, 'specially Chris'mas mohnin'. Dey alius had 
a heap ob company, an' de boys wusn't gwuic stih dcy- 
selves when dey home from school on a holiday. We 
alius wake 'em up an' git dey Chris'mas gif. Dey alius 
gib us somethin'. We fasten ole Mastah John's doah an* 
won't let him out till he gib us money — an' he alius did. 

"Afteh we'd 'raised' 'em all we'd run oveh to Cunnel 
Joe Po'teh's (yo' didn't know Cunnel Po'teh, but y'o ma 
did. De Marmadukes visited in dat county an' I seed yo' 
ma when she wus a little miss). We go to Cunnel Po'- 
teh's an' git he Chris'mas gif. He alius gib us some- 
thin'. 

"Cunnel Po'teh wus a monstrous likely man. He wus 
Mr. Po'teh den, 'cause de 'Bellion hadn't broke out, an' 
he cum to be Cunnel on de South'n side. I alius said if 
he'd been on de Union side he'd a-got anything he want- 
ed. He wus de bisinessest man in dat pa't ob de country. 
He wus a han'some man, tall an' po'tly, wid gray-yallah 
eyes. He owned Mandy — dat's my wife. Chris'mas 
times we didn't habt to wuk, only do de necessary cho'es, 
an' holp wid de horses an' houn's. 

"Dah wus a monstrous sight of huntin' took place 

39 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Christmas week; de game wus twenty to one what it is 
now. Deh cum in, in droves. I'se seed 'em a-layin' not 
twenty feet from me, a-lookin' at me. Looks so pretty 
when dey goes to run; dey don't run, dey jumps. See 
'em throw dey white tails in de aih. Deeh is like rabbits ; 
dey nips frost an* gits fat. We had heaps ob juhked 
hams, smoked. 

"Fd go roun' an' 'tend to de stock Chris'mas, den I'se 
done wuk. I alius throwed de oats oveh de fence foh de 
sheep. Sometimes de seed fell on dis side. De lambs 
would stick dey hades through foh hit an' de nex' mohnin' 
I'd fin' dey hade on de groun' on one side an' dey body 
on tutheh side, whah de wolves had ketched 'em an' eat 
away dey necks. Many a time I'se seed wolves a sittin' 
on de side ob de hill, sunnin' deyselves in de sun. 

"Ole Dr. Bausley, he'd cum up from Palmyra and 
bring he dogs an' Mr. Frisbie McCullough, he'd cum, an' 
ole mastah an' de boys, dey'd all go huntin'. Dey'd take 
us along to carry de ammunition an' pick up de game. 
Prairie chickens cum in such droves dey soun' like thun- 
deh. Wild tuhkeys, mor'n we could hit. Sometimes 
some would git lost an' stan' on de fence an' gobble to 
de tame tuhkeys an' dey'd gobble back. If yo' ketch 'em 
even when dey's young yo'se got to keep dey wings 
crapped, dey's so wild. And, Miss Va'ginny," with eager 
interest, "does yo know dat if yo' puts snuff undeh a 
chicken's nose, when yo' takes 'em off de roost at night, 
dey won't holla?" 

He seemed to be pleasingly reminiscent for a while, 
then came back to his story. 

"Dr. Bausley's fastest houn' was named Muraw. De 
boys called it Murat, so I alius calls it dat. Gunnel John's 

40 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

houn* was named Pilot. Sometimes we would drag a 
wolfskin aroun* de ridge to git de scent, an' den dey 
would Stan' whah dey could see, to watch de chase. One 
day dey killed a houn' what wus too fas' fo' de res' an' 
sp'iled de chase. I alius did think dat wus a shame, fo' 
de Lohd made dat houn' to run dat way. 

"Chris'mas dinner wus de big time," and Uncle drew a 
long breath. "All kinds ob game — tuhkeys, tame an' 
wild. Nebber seed a Chris'mas dinner den widout a lit- 
tle roast pig standin' up on de table wid a year ob roast 
co'n in he mouf. All kinds ob fine things an' plenty ob it. 
Wusn't no skimpin' in dem days. Nebber see a Chris'- 
mas widout eggnog. But people didn't drink too much; 
thought more ob deyselves den people does now. 

"De boys, dey would go cou'tin', go sleigh rides an' 
to dances. Wouldn't go to all de dances, though. Dey 
wus mighty high strung, our people wus. I jes' Stan's 
off an' looks at ouh boys an' guhls, when I'se waitin' to 
drive 'em home in de sleigh from de dance an' I say: 
'Dar ain't nobody got such nice-lookin' chillun as our 
people hab.' 

"De ladies 'muse deyselves when de gemmen wus out 
by makin' candy, snowballin', or tryin on dey party 
dresses. Nebber had to do nothin' 'ness dey wanted to. 
Jes' minded me ob a passel of blackbuhds when dey gits 
to talkin'. 

"But us cullud folks, we seed de bes' times ob all. At 
night I'd go an' git Mandy an' we'd all go to de Chris'mas 
tree at ouh chu'ch. It wus a log cabin. It's standin' yet, 
but it's most eat up wid taxes. De tree'd be full ob stock- 
in's an' apples an' pocket handkerchiefs an' candy. We'd 
hab actin', songs an' marchin' up an doun de floah. Den 

41 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

we'd go to somebody's cabin an' dance — very principally 
at de estate ob Mr. Joe Po'teh. 

"I recollect onct I wus ridin' our white mule an' 
Mandy wus a-sittin' up behin' me. We wus goin' home, 
an' de night wus pa't cloudy, wid snow on de groun'. I 
seed somethin' gray rise up from de hollow d'rectly in 
front ob us. I nebbeh said nothin' to Mandy, but de 
mule, hit seed hit, too. De thing jes' flew across de field; 
skimmed like a cloud. Didn't seem to tech nowhah. Look 
like a woman flyin'. 

"De mule, hit jes' took foh home, an' I couldn't stop 
him. I nebber looked back an' Mandy wus like to be 
jos'led off if she hadn't a belt on mighty tight. Dat's 
de onliest real ha'nt I ever seed, but I ixrlls yo' we'se de 
fust one gittin' to dat dance! We did dance de cotillon, 
de Va'ginny reel, but de bes' wus 'three-to-one.' " 

"Sure it wasn't sixteen to one. Uncle?" (The year was 
1900.) 

"No'm," said Uncle, seriously. "We couldn't a-took 
cah ob so many. Yo' see, dis way 'twus: Yo' stan's in 
one cohneh an yo' pa'tneh stan's in anuddeh cohner, wid 
two. Den yo' all dance to de middle till dey say *circu- 
late.' Den yo' ban's yo' pa'tneh yo' ban' an' she ban's 
yo' huh ban' an' yo' swing an' promenades. Alius had 
heaps ob cidah an' doughnuts an' things. One yallah gal 
I liked pretty well" (in a tone of confidence) ; "so did 
all de boys. But when we found out she put love pow- 
dehs in de cidah, we got skeered ob huh. Yessum ! Put 
love powdehs to make de boys like huh ; an' dey all did. 
Afteh I foun' she'd killed a cat I lef huh alone, 'cause I 
knowed dat makes a pusson alius trubblesome. Dey gits 
to be like a bee; jes' follow afteh yo* an' nag an* nag, 

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jes' like a bee stings, even if yo is running*. One ob our 
play-actin* songs was: 

"Heh cums a warrier, jes' frum Spain, 
A-courtin' ob my daughteh Jane. 
My daughteh, Jane, she is too young 
To be ruled by a flatterin* tongue." 

"Uncle, the negroes were in a better condition than 
they are now, weren't they?" 

"Yessum, day wus alius took cah ob, an' dey behaved 
deyselves betteh'n de cullud folks does now, 'cause dey 
had trainin'. Ouh white people alius taught us to tote 
faih. But yo' know. Miss Va'ginny," and Uncle weighed 
his philosophy long before giving it utterance, "even a 
buhd likes to be free. 

"One ob de las' Chris'mas times I went to I 'member 
mighty cleah," he went on, his heart being full of the sub- 
jest. "De dance wus in ouh cabin an' I'd took Mandy 
home an' wus standin' talkin' to huh on huh cabin steps. 
'Twas a white night ; moon shinin' an' snow on de groun*. 
I see Mr. Po'teh cum ridin' up on he boss, 'Wildbuhd,* 
wid he houn's followin' afteh. He reined up at de doah 
an' say, 'Bradshaw!' 

"I takes off my hat an' say, *Mr. Po'teh, suh?' He 
say, 'Bradshaw, what yo' doin' oveh heh so much fob ?' 

"I say, 'Mr. Po'teh, I hab takes a lakin' to dis woman, 
an' if yo'se willin' I'd like to marry huh.' 

"He stiddies a minit an' cuts de snow wid he whip. 
Den he say, 'Dat's all right, if yo'll be good to huh.' De 
Po'tehs alius thought a heap ob me. So I tooks huh." 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Uncle had seated himself during the conversation, and 
now he sat, smiling and "stiddyn." 

Virginia left the room, but soon returned. "Uncle, 
shut your eyes and hold out your hands.'* 

Uncle complied, the satisfied smile enveloping his coun- 
tenance. He opened his eyes as he felt a silver dollar. 

"Honey," he said, slowly, "I thinks ob yo' all jes' like 
I does ob de Lohd." 



44 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



WHO IS GREAT? 



By Grace Hewitt Sharp. 



Who is great ? 

The boasted lord of heired estate? 
The fashion queen, in sumptu'us ease? 
Ambition's crowned ? — Who fawns to please ? 
The theorist, in dreams, at peace — 
Asleep, from duties finds release? 
The doctor, who, in cap and gown, 
Pours information, gains renown; 
Yet for no fact can cause expound? 
No! 

He is greatest far who gives 
Back love for hatred — binds, forgives; 
Within whose soul is righteous rest; 
Nor pomp, nor praise is made life's quest; 
Whose neighbor's good is as his own; 
Whose wish is to have "Good" enthroned 
Whose justice, wisdom, unselfed love, 
His title to divineness prove. 

That person, if he meet applause, 
Or, if obscure, he lives God's laws, 
Is God's own image. His estate 
Is God-bestowed — the good are great! 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



EVIL NOT THE REALITY. 



By Grace Hewitt Sharp. 



"Say you evil is not active, 
Has no place within man's mind? 
Every mortal is its servant ; 
No one is all good, we find/* 

"True, the evil is apparent. 
Nor its activeness denied, 
But it is not truth, eternal ; 
Mortal thoughts have God's, belied. 

God made all that was created — 
Man, His image ; spirit, good ; 
God could not express an evil. 
Let God's work be understood. 

Pure thoughts, wise thoughts, just thoughts, love thoughts, 
Come from God, Who holds their course. 
Fleshly thoughts and all their outcome. 
Are not streams from spirit's source. 

Flesh and matter, evil, discord, 
Are the opposites of Mind. 
God, Truth, can't express an evil — 
Like produces e*er its kind. 

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All the virtues are eternal, 

Evil but a changing dream. 

This will pass; and man as "image" 

Will no more an outcast seem. 

See the perfect, and its shadow, 
Evil, darkness, will away. 
As the night is changed to clearness 
When the bright sun brings the day/* 



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THE WORTH WHILE. 



By Grace Hewitt Sharp. 



Do you say you shrink from troubles, 

Turn from duties on your road? 
Every act to lift the burdens 

Of another 'neath life's load, 
Purifies thine own earth nature. 

Aye, consumes thy selfish love. 
Burning up the finite flesh thoughts. 

For another's good to prove. 

Do you suffer for the giving 
Of yourself for others' woe? 

Love alone is truly living; 

Here may self unselfish grow. 

And the rapture of this home heart 
Will with peace and joy o'er flow. 

Do you love your brother truly, 

Whatsoe'er his lot may be? 
Little while this life we dwell in; 

But through all eternity 
We must know, as God doth know us — 

His impartial Fatherhood 
Must reverse our selfish cravings. 

Learn to love now as we should. 

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THE REAL. 



By Grace Hewitt Sharp. 



E'en here, in the spirit's at-one-ment with God, 
Above all the tumult, the rancor and clod. 
Are harmonies, beauties, which God's children hear; 
Their echoes bring blessings to all on our sphere. 

On earth, by the guidance and wisdom of God, 
Are pathways of glory that brave ones have trod ; 
Undying, unbroken, unending sweet rest — 
In life, love and truth God's children are blest. 

'Tis purity, trust and satisfied joy, 
Christ's mind the fruition, life none can destroy. 
Ope wide, then, the portal and let us go in, 
Ascending, in measure, o'er hate, self and sin. 

'Tis God's love resplendant, sublime and complete. 
This consciousness, infinite, in each replete. 
God knows not a sinning, a temporal plan — 
The Mind of Perfection expressed, is, man. 



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RESURRECTION. 



By Grace Hewitt Sharp. 



Peace ! close the door and rest thou within. 
Peace in the spirit, which knoweth not sin ; 
Peace, in the love and the truth of Christ's heart. 
Miss'd are Hfe's plaudits? They're fleeting at best. 
Here in God's Love is the infinite rest. 
Life is more blessed, though friends should all fail. 
If spirit's pure love for all mankind prevail. 

Close up your volume — 'tis self's little book ; 
Out into Good let the seeking soul look. 
Love, only love, right and purity see ; 
Man is God's child, His reflection is he. 



50 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



THE DONKEY AND THE WOLF. 



By Donald L. Sutton. 



PART I. 

SEEKING A BRIDE. 

An ass, having labored nine years for a man, 

Working as only a hardened donkey can, 

One day was freed, and given a bag of gold 

And more advice than his poor head could hold. 

He scarcely listened to what his master said. 

But ran away as soon as he was fed. 

In a great wood he'd gone about a mile, 

When a fierce wolf said, with a sickening smile, 

"Good-morning, sir! A beautiful day, is it. not?" 

"Yes," brayed the donkey, "but a trifle hot." 

"I guess," the wolf remarked, in a careless way, 

"Your noble lord has let you off to-day. 

It is a shame that you must work for men 

When I at home am sleeping in my den." 

"I have no lord," the donkey said with pride, 

"And he. who says I have. Sir Wolf, has lied." 

"A bad mistake I made, Sir Ass, of course; 

"I mixed your lordship with the slavish horse." 

The poor wolf looked so sad and full of pain, 

51 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

The ass, mollified, hastened to explain: 

"I left my master and labor no more, 

Even to do the tiniest, little chore. 

For I have planned to go to donkey-land 

And sue for some exquisite lady's hand." 

"But," said the wolf, "the way is very long, 

And though I see you are well built and strong, 

It will take weary months to travel there. 

Come with me unto my restful lair." 

"I thank you, Mr. Wolf," the donkey brayed, 

"And I shall see that you are richly paid." 

The ass tossed high his treasure-bag of hide 

Until the dancing coins rattled inside. 

"Dear lord," the old wolf said, bowing to the ground, 

"Your coins have a most sweet and musical sound. 

But come," he urged, "let's go to my retreat. 

My stomach cries that it is high time to eat.'* 

And so they walked unto the wolf's great lair 

And found a splendid dinner cooking there. 

The wolf had many weird and curious things. 

Bits of ivory and tips from eagles' wings. 

The ass looked on this princely wealth with awe 

And stared in wonder at all his big eyes saw. 

"Mr. Wolf, your wealth is very great — 

Have you been an officer of the State? 

I remember that my master said one time 

That they grow rich without reason or rhyme, 

And you assert you never work at all. 

Whence comes this wealth I see within your hall?" 

"Donkey," exclaimed the wolf, "I can explain. 

And everything to your great mind make plain. 

Here is a piece of magic called a glass, 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Inside you will behold a fellow ass." 

He took a mirror from among his curios 

And held it near the donkey's tilted nose. 

"What a creature 1" the donkey cried, in surprise. 

"What lovely ears and such bright and shining eyes ! 

Oh, Mr. Wolf, see the big bag of hide! 

A twin to the one that hangs by my side. 

I see it in the magic glass you hold. 

Can the enchanted bag be filled with gold?" 

The wolf picked up a flask lying near 

And waved a wand about in figures queer. 

"Be quick, Mr. Donkey, "do what I tell. 

Or else you'll break this weird and dreadful spell. 

Take the bag that holds your tinkling gold 

And pour the coin into my magic mold; 

And as you look, the fair, reflected ass 

Will pour money into the enchanted glass. 

Within the mirror riches lie untold — 

All these Il'l give and take instead your gold." 

The donkey did as he was told to do, 

Then with the ass' gold the wolf withdrew. 

"Oh!" cried the donkey, nervous and alarmed, 

"When will the glass give up the gold it charmed?" 

All smiles, the wolf returned. "Before you go," 

He chuckled, "I will tell you what I know. 

When thus you wave the wand and oaths declaim, 

The glass will satisfy the wish you name. 

The mountain witch did give me strict commands 

When magic power she put into my hands. 

She told me that a prosperous year would pass 

When I should meet a handsome, learned ass; 

That I should die unless I taught the oath 

53 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

And gave the ass the wand and mirror both." 
The tale and meal having come to an end, 
The gleeful donkey rose to leave his friend. 
"Mr. Wolf," he said, "I'm robbing you 
To take the wand and magic mirror, too." 
But as he dropped them in the bag of hide 
The smiling wolf to the donkey thus replied: 
"My friend, I've laid away a goodly store 
To last until my righteous days are o'er." 
"What wonder," the astonished donkey mused, 
"Such ponderous wealth this little glass infused. 
It feels so light, and yet so much does hold, 
Within its glassy surface lies all my gold. 
"Good day. Sir Wolf!" the donkey, tearful, brayed. 
"I would with you I could have longer stayed." 
"God be with you, Donkey dear. To part 
Almost breaks my sad and lonely heart." 



PART II. 

THE DONKEY AND THE FOX. 

And SO the donkey kept upon his way, 
Pleased as a lamb upon a summer's day, 
For now he could assume a joyful gait. 
Relieved of his treasure's oppressive weight. 
And as he went gamboling gaily along 
He brayed a delicate, melodious song; 
With such tremulous sweetness did it rise 
That the welling tears flooded both his eyes. 
Finally, by his powerful feelings swept, 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

The ass sat on the dusty road and wept. 

By chance a keen-eyed fox observed him there. 

"So young, so sweet, so tearful and so fairl" 

Cried sympathetic Reynard, bowing low. 

"Why, Mr. Donkey, are you weeping so?" 

"It's nothing, Mr. Fox, the worst is past ; 

The greatest storms do but a short time last. 

"Let us go," and up the donkey got, 

And off they went upon a gentle trot. 

The fox complained, "Why do you hurry so? 

Gentle Donkey, let us go more slow. 

It's bad to waste your sweet and balmy breath. 

Haste breeds consumption that may lead to death." 

But still the obstinate ass increased his speed 

Until poor Reynard grew very hot indeed. 

"Worst of all, I read in medical books, 

That running hard spoils e'en an angel's looks." 

The fox soon wished he hadn't spoken at all. 

For the ass stood still and thus began to call: 

"My mirror, quick! This bag I must unswing. 

Oh, please, Sir Fox, help to untie this string!" 

The astonished fox did as the donkey bade, 

Thinking that the sun had made his comrade mad. 

The donkey searched the bag until he found 

His glass; gently he placed it on the ground; 

Solemnly he watched the weird reflection 

From side to side — a most severe inspection. 

Then, turning 'round, with dignity and pride, 

"Fox," the donkey sternly said, "you lied." 

The flatterer hastened to explain the case, 

Saying nothing on earth could spoil a face 

That, like the donkey's, shone almost divine, 

55 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Or hurt a form of such exquisite Hne. 

And thus the fox went on, "I only said 

That in a book somewhere that's what I read. 

Some books, except for Hes, are mostly true ; 

A saint would lie that spoke slightingly of you." 

"Say nothing more," the ass said, with a sigh, 

"I'm glad, Sir Fox, you did not mean to lie. 

Let us, dear brother, hasten on our way 

And not foolishly throw our time away." 

The inquisitive fox, as they journeyed on. 

Remarked, "Many months, I suppose, you'll be gone?" 

"Yes," brayed the ass, "I'm off for donkey-land, 

To proudly sue for some fair lady's hand. 

The country lies full many leagues ahead 

And unfamiliar roads my feet must tread." 

"Yes," said the fox, "though I was never there. 

The damsels, I am told, are wondrous fair. 

But, sir, the journey is hard and expensive, too. 

And I cannot imagine what you will do. 

To travel without wealth of any kind 

Is impossible, I'm afraid you'll find. 

Take my advice and do not further roam. 

But turn about and journey to your home." 

"I'm very rich," the haughty donkey brayed, 

"Of all the world my soul is not afraid. 

At dawn I had a single bag of gold, 

But now my riches are almost untold." 

"Indeed !" the fox murmured, pricking his ears, 

"Misers seem poorer than this ass appears." 

"But, pardon me, dear sir," aloud he inquired, 

"Why do you travel thus raggedly attired?" 

The ass was hurt, being a little vain; 

56 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

However, to the fox he started to explain, 
Rehearsing the story the wolf had told, 
He spoke of the trade he made for his gold. 
The cunning fox replied, repressing his sneers, 
"Some people have brains and others have ears. 



PART in. 

THE FOREST FAIR. 

"Sir Fox," the haughty donkey cried, "look there! 
Buildings I see and tents and temples fair. 
By Gad! Sir Fox, beyond that highest steeple 
See the crowds and crowds of forest people. 
Let us go, O ! Fox, into that town. 
I wish to buy clothes and a suitable gown. 
For I am rich and have increasing desire 
To dress in the swellest and brightest attire. 
D,ear Mr. Fox, you shall have what you wish, 
A silver pipe, or golden carving dish." 
"You're very kind. Sir Ass," drawled the fox. 
Picking his way with care among the rocks; 
"Thank you. but pardon this display of nerve. 
For your company is more than I deserve." 
And, bowing low, the smiling fox began : 
"Sir, your humble servant has a plan. 
Let us hire a booth in yonder fair. 
And you, in brightest robes of colors rare. 
Can show your wand and mystic mirror both. 
Majestic, say the awe-inspiring oath. 
And while the people's blood is running cold, 

57 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Command the mirror to vomit forth its gold." 
The donkey's face with childish pride illumined, 
A tragic pose he thereupon assumed. 
"Sir Fox, your plan is what I most desire. 
Before a multitude, my soul on fire, 
To speak in thundering tones the wondrous tale 
And free the gold from out the glass' jail. 
O, Fox, I feel within my soul's clear spring 
The power to eat and then the power to sing. 
Aye, from my childhood's earliest days 
I wakened the sun with sweet and tuneful brays. 
I needed no fool teacher, but forlorn, 
A genius and a mighty actor born, 
Struck attitudes of loving, tender grace, 
And, yearning, poured my feelings into space, 
Until the cows, enraptured with surprise, 
Turned full on me their wide, wondering eyes. 
What art ! the bit destroyed ! The roll of fame 
I weep to think, Sir Fox, has lost my name, 
And future generations will blame the knave 
That bore me off to be his stubborn slave. 
But come, my friend, I like your plan ; in truth. 
We will secure in yonder fair a booth." 
The fox began, "As to admission price, 
I wish, Mr. Donkey, to ask advice." 
"Stop," cried the donkey, "do not bother me; 
Of course, we will let all the people in free. 
The money means nothing to us at all, 
And I desire to have a well-filled hall." 
"It's plain, Mr. Ass," the fox sadly said, 
"That nothing but acting is now in your head. 
People love things that cost money or pain. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Things easily gotten are held in great disdain. 

Only let the price on death be high, 

And all the fools on earth would want to die. 

If you desire a crowd, take my advice 

And make the admission a fearful price." 

"Fox," cried the ass, "let it be as you please, 

And don't bother me with trifles like these." 

They hired a forest booth, and criers, too. 

To tell the fair just what they wished to do. 

A crowd collected, but the price was high, 

And only a very few at first would buy. 

But the story gained by being retold. 

Until 'twas rumored the ass vomited gold. 

Indeed, some of the people at the fair 

Said they had seen him walking through the air. 

Soon such a crowd the gate went pouring through. 

To take the gold was all the fox could do. 

At first he filled one bag of straining hide. 

And then he laid another by its side; 

And when the entrance way to the booth had cleared, 

The fox picked up the bags and disappeared. 



PART IV. 

THE DONKEY IN THEATRICALS. 

Meanwhile the ass seated in state inside, 
Beheld the growing throng with swelling pride. 
And thought with tears of the days when great, un- 
known, 

59 • 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

He acted to the admiring cows alone. 

The curtain rose, he stepped upon the stage; 

His train was borne by a giraffe as page. 

His form was draped in robes of red and gold, 

Swung in many a rich and graceful fold. 

The ass, reaching the center of the stage. 

Began to let his powerful feelings rage. 

Dramatically, his tail high in the air. 

He told his tale, adding everywhere. 

The wolf would have fainted from sheer surprise 

To think he could have told such awful lies. 

The people scarcely breathed; trembling, they saw 

The donkey flash the mirror in his paw. 

He waved the magic wand — the crowd grew cold — 

Thrice he bade the mirror vomit gold. 

And every word the frantic ass did utter 

Made the disappointed people mutter: 

"You coward!" "You thief!" "You fool!" "You lying 

knave !" 
And "Kill the fraud!" the crowd began to rave. 
The donkey, frightened at the angry throng. 
Lucklessly thought to try the power of song. 
His troubled head held back, solemnly swaying. 
The poor ass bellowed out his tuneless braying. 
The furious crowd, with one wild, angry roar, 
Shrieking, "Kill!" swept him through the door. 
The soldiers of King Lion broke through the mass 
And seized upon the struggling, bedraggled ass. 
"My prisoner, sir !" the captain fiercely cried. 
With a fresh burst of song the ass replied. 
From the hall they dragged him by the tail 
And safely locked him in the county jail. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 
PART V. 

THE DONKEY ON TRIAL. 

The ass next day, when summoned to his trial, 

Took his seat with a very cheerful smile. 

But when called on to make an honest plea 

He told his tale and sobbed in misery, 

Begging the mighty king to set him free. 

That he might see the dear old wolf once more 

And from his name remove the stain it bore — 

Rightly learn the oaths, and in a day 

The ticket price and more to all repay. 

"I fear the fox has been beaten and robbed. 

Fm sick with apprehension," the donkey sobbed. 

"If he is dead, my cup of woe is filled. 

My God! My God! I know my friend is killed!" 

"Thieves live — it is the good people that die," 

Said the lion king, heaving a mournful sigh. 

"Since the world began, and till it ends, 

Rogues and flatterers will have their friends. 

For them are stirred the mothers' noblest fears, 

For them are shed in vain her fondest tears; 

But peace abhors the very things they touch, 

And misery has their hearts within its clutch. 

My guards pursued the fox into his lair, 

And found the stolen gold he'd hidden there. 

Enough. Ho! valiant guards, unlock the box 

And bring us here that thieving, lying fox." 

The fox, tied with ropes, was sullen and grim, 

The donkey could scarcely recognize him. 

Scowling, he looked ahead nor seemed to care, 

6i 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Nor hardly know what he was doing there. 
During his trial he did not try to speak, 
But leaned against a post, he was so weak. 
Thus people feel from highest triumph borne 
When chained and cast into places forlorn. 
Every step man's feelings exultant ascend 
Unto his downfall potential force does lend. 
The greatest rapture that any mortal feels 
Has pain and grim despair upon its heels. 
When twenty years' hard work his doom was made, 
The sullen fox did not appear dismayed. 
But when the king cried out, "Enough for thee. 
Ho! doughty guard, set thou the donkey free!" 
A fearful wrath grew in the fox's heart. 
His eyes with strain and bitter tears did smart. 
As curses loud he howled above the crowd, 
And dire vengeance upon the donkey vowed. 
And as the doughty guard dragged him away, 
The donkey, filled with woe and sad dismay. 
Begged the king the poor, dear fox to free. 
And take instead his own sweet liberty. 
"Poor, silly thing !" the kind king said and smiled. 
"Your heart is soft and easily beguiled. 
Do you not know the cause of this wild hate. 
That filled the fox's heart with rage so late? 
Why at first patiently all he bore 
And afterwards in rage foul vengeance swore? 
Because in his damned soul he thought that you 
Would suflFer in a gloomy prison, too. 
Villains their troubles can the better bear 
If innocence the punishment does share. 
Some in doing good receive their joy, 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Others are unhappy unless they destroy. 

Come to my palace before you start — 

I wish, poor ass, to talk with you apart 



PART VI. 

THE DONKEY SEEKS THE WOLF. 

The next day through the winding palace halls, 

With golden tapestry upon the walls, 

The ass was led by a royal peacock page, 

Where sat high on his throne the kingly sage. 

The ass advanced, and scraped, and bowed quite low, 

And sought his sovereign master's will to know. 

The king, making sure that they were alone, 

Smiling, rose upon his gilded throne. 

"Come, Mr. Ass, put ceremony aside. 

You'll kneel enough, if searching for a bride. 

I ordered you to come to find out how 

You hope to reach the land of donkeys now." 

"T had not thought of that," the donkey said, 

"Another thought has filled my throbbing head. 

I long to free the suffering fox from pain 

That he may roam the tranquil woods again." 

"Stop!" cried the king, with anger in his tone. 

Starting fiercely up upon his throne. 

"If you speak of that vile fox once more 

I'll hang the brute, as I wished to do before." 

The poor, old, trembling ass was filled with fears, 

And barely could restrain the struggling tears. 

The kindly king, smiling, began to say, 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Striving the donkey's fears to drive away : 

"We order you to take the wand and glass 

To the wolf. You understand, Sir Ass? 

And get your bag of gold. Now say no more. 

My servant will escort you to the door 

And give you money for your trip. Take care, 

Unless a thief come on you unaware." 

Having spoken, the king the ass dismissed, 

Graciously allowing his paw to be kissed. 

Calling his guards, he followed secretly, 

Thinking to punish the wolf for his knavery. 

The donkey's heart was gay as to the west 

He journeyed on the forest king's behest. 

The sun was warm, the day was calm and bright. 

The clear, pure air was filled with dazzling light. 

And every step he made along the road 

Some new scene of wondrous beauty showed. 

Forests grand, immense, that, opening wide, 

Languid, sylvan seats revealed inside. 

Or stony peaks, rearing their heads on high 

Until they seemed to touch the cloudless sky. 

All pleased, the happy donkey saw, and felt 

His heart and soul with admiration melt. 

"Ye skies," he stopped upon a peak and brayed, 

"How oft I've seen thy ethereal glories fade! 

The darkest nights beasts ever looked upon 

Assured them of the near approach of dawn. 

Such has been my life, now I rejoice 

The feeling of the universe to voice. 

Ye streams which, like bright threads of silver glow. 

Ye mighty forests that stretch so far below, 

To you I dedicate this powerful thought, 

64 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

The like of which the Lord has scarcely wrought; 

All things teach and each thing in its turn 

Something from the rest is forced to learn. 

I behold your forms of towering might, 

Rolling trees flashing the warm sunlight, 

And you behold not peak, nor stream, nor tree. 

But turn your quiet, admiring gaze on me. 

So each receives and gives a fit return; 

The greatest from the smallest often learn. 

The most beautiful plant that ever grew 

Some vile earth long hid from mortal's view. 

For even I, a gifted, graceful ass, 

Beheld myself when I procured a glass. 

Before, in chains and grim darkness bound. 

My neck grew sore with vainly turning 'round. 

At last a glass I found, oh, happy hour ! 

And lo! the earth revealed its choicest flower." 

The wolf's old cave he found deserted and bare. 

And a family of toads living there. 

The ass kept on until he saw a door, 

Concealed with brush, he'd never seen before. 

A massive stone appeared to block his way. 

The ass sat down and thus began to bray : 

"I have a sack of yellow gold, 

My back grows tired the sack to hold ; 

Oh, I am rich " 

The frightened donkey stopped and looked around. 
He thought he heard a sharp, crackling sound 
He saw a wolf hidden in the grass, 
Who had his eyes glued on the astonished ass. 

6s 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

"Oh, Sir Wolf!" the gladdened donkey cried, 
And in a second the wolf was at his side. 
He grasped his hoof with tears and sobs of joy 
And called the elated ass his "darling boy." 
Asked him one question and then another, 
Mixed with "beloved ass" and "darling brother," 
Until the donkey could have wept for shame 
To think that he had thought the wolf to blame. 
In the wolf's cave the pair sat down to dine. 
The host explained the donkey's looks, like wine, 
Had filled his head upon the meeting day, 
And he the wrong wand had given away. 
He said that he had followed another's track 
When he rushed out to bring the donkey back. 
"Thanks be to God, my friend, you're here at last !" 
The wolf cried out. "Forget the frightful past. 
Come with me into yonder mountainside. 
And you shall have the wand so long denied." 
The ass followed the wolf from room to room. 
Through deserted caverns dark as the tomb. 
Until they stopped before a door of rock. 
Fastened by a massive forest lock. 
"Oh," the wolf said, "how foolish we can be! 
The wand is inside, and I haven't my key. 
I will go back and get it, never fear. 
And I will soon return, donkey, dear." 
The ass sat down to wait and to be brave ; 
Bats flew around the damp and gloomy cave. 
He heard a sound made by a moving stone, 
Then all was silent, and the ass alone. 
As hour by hour drew to a weary end 
The donkey grew uneasy for his friend. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

He rose and stumbled by chasms dark and grim, 

And many skulls that seemed to stare at him. 

He reached the opening they had used that day. 

But found a boulder blocked the narrow way. 

"Oh, God!" the donkey cried "his fate is known. 

The darHng wolf was crushed beneath this stone." 

The poor ass tried in vain to move the rock. 

Then sang a song, still trembling from the shock. 

Loudly the ass did sing, but even he 

Grew tired of singing till eternity. 

Wearied at last, the ass could bray no more. 

And, fainting, sank upon the mossy floor. 

He woke to hear the great rock roll away. 

His name was called. He answered with a bray. 

And gasped to see the wolf, bleeding, in chains. 

The forest king and troop of barking Danes. 

"Wretch!" cried the wolf, "see what you made me do! 

See what your cursed gold has brought me to !" 

The ass before the king fell on his face 

And started with tears to plead the prisoner's case. 

The fierce king cried, "Another word and you 

I will cast in chains and have beaten, too. 

We chased this beast for many a weary hour 

Before, tired out, he fell into our power." 

The castle reached, the wolf in jail was thrown. 

The sovereign and the ass were left alone. 

"Poor fool !" exclaimed the king, "don't you know 

Why the wolf was bound and beaten so? 

The treacherous wolf it was that locked you in, 

Thinking your gold would well reward the sin. 

My mind has dwelt upon your life to-day. 

Concerning you poor ass, I wish to say, 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

It is not kind to give you wealth nor gold, 
Which you have not the power nor sense to hold. 
But stay with me and royal service take, 
A faithful guard I know that you will make." 
The donkey paused and scratched his massive head. 
"My Lord," he brayed, "I'll do as you have said." 
The lion took his hand, and out they went, 
The sovereign and his subject quite content. 
To keep the ass from bothering him the king 
Decided that the wolf and fox must swing. 
And on the morrow, ere the sun went down, 
The fox and wolf, sentenced, gained renown. 
In their cheerless cells received bouquets. 
Locks of hair and letters filled with praise. 
In the papers, their death being so near. 
Life-sized, embellished portraits did appear. 
At dead of night the gallows trap was sprung, 
And in the air their lifeless bodies swung. 



68 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



THE SACRIFICE. 



A Christmas Sketch. 



By Mrs. Samuel Hebron Baker. 



Everything in the room betokened respectable pov- 
erty. A man, looking sick unto death, was dressing a 
fair-haired little boy, in cheaply smart clothes. The lov- 
ing, last touches were given, and the shaking hands of 
the father gathered together the frayed garments lately 
worn by his son, carefully foldng and making them into a 
neat package. In a few hours they will represent all 
that remains to him of his boy. 

There was still an hour to spare before they would 
leave for their journey. The father took the little boy on 
his knee, folding him closely in his arms, as a thing too 
precious to lose, gazing with intense devotion into the 
small face, upturned to ask a question. 

''Where's we doin', papa?" 

Heath had come out conqueror in his bitter fight with 
Selfishness. He answered his son with a voice at once 
firm and pathetic: 

"We are going up into the country, to a little town on 
the river, to try an — experiment, Ronald." 

''What's a sper'ment, papa?" 

*'I can't explain it to you, dear ; but you must do just 

69 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

as papa says. Listen! To-morrow will be Christmas 
Day, and I want you to go, bright and early, to a big, big 
house that I know of, and sing 'Noel' to an old man that 
lives there. Do you remember the song?" 

"Course I do, papa." 

"Sing it, dear ; I must be sure." 

The childish voice obediently quavered the old Christ- 
mas greeting so commonly used in England : 

"Noel— Noel— Noel— Noel, 

The Baby Christ was born to-day. 

In a city far away. 

He came with a message of Peace and Love, 

From the Father Who lives above." 

"That will do, pet. Just repeat that verse until the 
old man hears you, and then give him this letter," He 
produced a thick packet, which he placed in the child's 
pocket. The man stopped abruptly, covering his face 
with his wasted hands. Seizing them in his tight little 
grip, Ronald tried to pull them away, crying: 

"What's the matter, popsey?" 

There was no answer but a dry sob. 

"Papa, papa, tell me!" with peremptory tugs. 

The man mastered his emotion. "Such a headache, 
baby!" 

"Poor papa!" he softly patted the gaunt face of his 
father. 

"It's better now." The man labored with his grief, 
and assumed a commonplace manner. "Come, child; it's 
time to go." 

A short journey brought them to a country station. A 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

room at the inn was engaged and a frugal meal served 
them there. The wretched man was jealous of those last 
hours with his son. After the meal, the child slept. 

Then his sorrow found vent. With breaking heart he 
reviewed the last seven years of his lite. His Italian 
mother had given him a wonderful voice, and he had 
sung himself into the heart of Howard Grafton's only 
child. He spared himself not at all as he sighed aloud 
his bitter arraignment. 

"It was a crime for me to take her away from her 
luxurious home to one of poverty, and my punishment 
is just. My days are numbered." He bent over the 
sleeping child as if he would devour him with his gaze. 
Then, in a very abandonment of woe, he laid his face 
on that of the sleeper. The child stirred ; he must not 
awaken him. He tried to sing a lullaby, softly, but his 
voice broke. Again he whispered, voicing a fear. 
"Would his vital sacrifice be in vain? Would Howard 
Grafton accept the baby — Florence's very image? He 
had been cruel at death, unforgiving to the last. He 
would not see her, even when she lay dying. 

He took the important letter from the little pocket and 
read it carefully. It explained all. Enclosed was their 
marriage certificate, the certificate of Ronald's birth, and 
that of his wife's death. 

He had written, "I can live but a few weeks — will per- 
haps be dead when you read this, for a mortal disease 
is upon me. This is my atonement, that I give up my 
child, who would comfort my last moments. Take hef 
son, I implore you, and forgive the bitter Past." 

Again he secured the letters in Ronald's pocket and 
resumed his long vigil, for he must not sleep away the 

71 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

few remaining hours that remain to him with his boy. 
The morning broke clear and cold, and after a hurried 
breakfast they set off for their long walk over the hills. 
It was nearly a mile, he remembered, to the great gates 
of Grafton Park. They neared the house, and then the 
white-faced man held his child in a last, close embrace. 

"Nothing will ever let you forget papa, darling?' 

"What a'n idear, papa!" 

With his head lying on his father's shoulder, his arms 
tightly clasped around his neck, Ronald listened to the 
last instructions, wondering what it all meant, but believ- 
ing that what his father did was right. The baby had 
never thought of questioning his father's wisdom. 

"Now. remember, dear. Walk around the house and 
sing the 'Noel' greeting that papa taught you. Sing under 
the windows until some one hears you. Probably a serv- 
ant will ask you into the kitchen, and you must not leav e 
until you see the old gentleman named Grafton. Give 
him the letter that I put in your pocket. Do you tmder- 
stand?" 

"Yes, papa." He moved his head, facing his lather. 
"I is Grafton, too, papa — in the middle," he laughed. 

"Yes, you are Grafton, in the middle," he repeated, 
humoring him. "You are to tell the old gentleman that 
your name is Ronald Grafton Heath. I shall expect you 
to stay with him, if he asks you — all day, perhaps." 

" 'N' where'll you be, papa ?" 

"I? Oh, I'll go back to the— hotel." 

Ronald weakened. "I'd wather go wiv you, papa, 'n 
catch bears 'n 'umpossibusses." 

The miserable man was hard pressed for words or 
strength to utter them. Presently he said : 

72 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

"Would you stay here if you knew it would give papa 
a r-e-al jolly time?" 

"How tould it, papa, when we's chums?" 

The tense nerves of the man were failing him, "You 
must believe me Ronald, without asking questions. If 
you stay here papa will be free to have a r-e-g-u-l-a-r-l-y 
jolly old time." 

"How long mus' I stay, papa?" he whimpered, softly. 

"Until papa sends for you; and, remember, brave, lit- 
tle boys never cry." 

The child laid his quivering face against the emaciated 
one of his father. "When'll you send, papa chum?" 

"I — I don't just exactly know, Ronald. Trust me, and 
be papa's brave little boy." 

"Yes, I is, papa." 

There were signs of life about the mansion, and Heath 
knew the very minute had come when Ronald must leave 
him. One passionate embrace, a great heart-wrench, and 
the little boy left his dying father. 

Old Howard Grafton sat brooding in his comfortable 
library. It was Christmas eve, but it brought with it no 
joy for him. His widowed sister moved softly about 
the room, trying to arouse in him at least a semblance 
of happiness, 

"Howard, it is Christmas eve, you know?" 

"And pray," he snarled, "how does Christmas eve 
differ from any other eve to a couple of fossils ?" 

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Howard, it is true 
there are but two old people here, but — the child may 
have lived." 

He moved uneasily in his chair, bidding her remem- 

73 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

ber that she was touching on a forbidden subject, but 
his sister persisted. 

"Howard," her hand still rested on his shoulder, "I 
am an old woman, and do not fear your anger. Do what 
you will, I shall try to find Florence's child." 

"And then?" almost fiercely. 

"If you do not acknowledge it, / zvill!" 

"I hope you will thrive — on air." 

"I have the cottage in Kent, and the two thousand 
pounds left me by my father," she said, with a resolution 
that showed the subject had been well studied and finally 
decided. 

The old man was plainly troubled, but was much too 
proud to show it. He abruptly left the room, leaving 
his sister in possession. Locked in his room, he broke 
into a storm of tears. Florence was dead, and perhaps 
her child was alive somewhere — a waif, possibly des- 
titute. He cursed the man who had robbed him of his 
child, rating Harriet vehemently for raising the ghost of 
a dreadful past. 

Youngest son of an English nobleman, and having 
commercial instincts, he had come to America and suc- 
ceeded in winning a fortune. When his sister, Harriet 
Gore, was widowed, she had left her home in England to 
preside over the home of her brother, a widower, with 
one child, a petted daughter, indulged in every caprice 
save one. When her singing master, Ronald Heath, won 
her by his soft voice and seductive manner his suit was 
refused in a way that left no doubt as to its finality. 
Then followed the elopement and the father's refusal of 
all overtures toward recociliation. When, a year later, 
news came that Florence was dying, he swore he would 

74 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

never see her child nor its beggarly father. This hap- 
pened five years ago, and so far as was shown on the 
surface he was still untouched and unforgiving. 

That Christmas eve he retired without again seeing 
his sister, who he knew meant to be troublesome. His 
sleep was broken, and in the early morning his light slum- 
ber was disturbed by a plaintive child's voice singing the 
old "Noel" greeting — the same that Florence used to 
sing in her pretty quaint way, outside his bedroom door 
as a reminder of Christmas gifts. He started up, for the 
voice was hke hers, but instantly dismissed the thought. 
The voice was passing sweet, and now he was able to dis- 
tinguish the words and the imperfect pronunciation of a 
very young child. He arose and peered through the cur- 
tains, for the voice seemed to be under his window. The 
dear old Christmas greeting was stirring his hard, old 
heart. 

He wished he might see the child, if only to fling it 
some silver and bid it go away, for the song awoke un- 
pleasant memories — albeit, they were sadly sweet. He 
listened again to the strangely familiar voice: 

"Noel— Noel— Noel— Noel. 

The Baby Quist was born to-day, 

In a city far away. 

He tame wiv a message of peace an' wuv, 

F'om d' Fader Who dwells above." 

He listened, rapt. The child was beginning the second 
verse, "A message of tind dood will to man," then, re- 
membering his father's instructions, to repeat the first 
verse only, he obediently started it again. 

75 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

What in God's name did it mean? The old man could 
bear it no longer. Hastily dressing, he descended to the 
library and rang for the butler, who appeared, amazed 
at the early summons. 

"James/' he commanded, "admit that singing child. 
He must be cold. Just bring him here, and, James, wait 
a minute. I'll see the little beggar alone — no need to 
say anything to Mrs. Gore." 

James admitted the shivering child, and old Howard 
Grafton stared, as if confronted by a ghost. It was as if 
Florence stood before him. with the difference that the 
apparition was a little boy. The hair, the perfect com- 
plexion, all belonged to Florence. The resemblan:e an- 
gered — nay, frightened — him. He was dumb. 

The boy spoke timidly, as if to an ogre of doubtful 
temper. 

"Is you de ol' gem'lem?" 

"What old gentleman?" fiercely. 

"Or gem'lem Mr. Grafton?" piped Ronald. 

"My name is Grafton. Who are you?" 

"I is Ronald Grafton Heath," introduced the boy, with 
Florence's voice and smile. 

The old man's face grew white as he stared. 

"I is dot a letter for you in my potet," indicating the 
latter by a proud little pat. 

Ronald handed him the packet, and the man's hand 
closed over it mechanically. He had sworn that the ac- 
cursed beggar's son should never be acknowledged by 
him, and now he knew that he was beaten. The beauti- 
ful child before him was his grandchild, and the letter 
undoubtedly contained proof of it. 

For the next few minutes he was almost frenzied with 

76 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

the three-fold struggle between himself, Hate and Love. 
He strode fiercely about the room, and presently, glanc- 
ing toward the child, saw that he was crying. God ! Per- 
haps he was hungry. A thousand memories of his daugh- 
ter rushed over him, drowning, slaying Hate and Re- 
venge. He caught the child in his arms and kissed him 
passionately, subjugated by love and remorse. He rang 
furiously for James, giving orders for the child's break- 
fast to be served. "After which," he said, "bring him 
back to me." 

He tried to collect his senses, and was at length able 
to master the contents of the package. 

"James," he shouted, "send Mrs. Gore to me; Vm 
upset." 

His sister entered the room, her sweet, old face wet 
with tears. 

"Howard, I'm sure I heard a child's voice singing 
'Noel' under our windows this morning. It was the same 
greeting that we sang when we were children down in 
dear, old Kent. Won't you have the grounds searched?" 

"No need to search the grounds, Harriet. He's here, 
having his breakfast," he confessed. 

"Then you heard it, too? Are you ill, Howard?" 

"No !" he roared. He waddled about the room, ashamed 
to confess his weakness, and then made full surrender 
to his sister. 

"Harriet, I'm whipped." 

Subdued, ashamed, but relieved of the tension of 
hatred, he thrust the papers in her hand, trying to speak 
brusquely, but failing, for his voice shook under the load 
of gladness in his heart. 

"Read that, and presently James will bring you a 

77, 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Christmas present." He hurried from the room and, 
pausing in the doorway to speak, showed a face happy, if 
somewhat sheepish. 

"I don't want to hear anything about it afterward." 

She read the papers, and bowed her head in humble 
thanksgiving. A door opened, and James entered, lead- 
ing the child. As she opened her arms to him the silence 
was broken by a peal from the chimes of a nearby church, 
and the song was, "Peace on earth, good will to men." 

Then she turned to James, giving him a quick, per- 
emptory order, and he hurried from the room. 

Taking the child in her frail, old arms, she crossed 
the hall into the presence of her brother. 

"Howard, we cannot accept this gift gratuitously. 
God's messenger, in the form of the boy's father, brought 
him to us, and we must not let him die alone. He has 
made the sacrifice, and it remains for us to lighten the 
burden of the remnant of his life by allowing him to see 
his child." 

"Well?" mildly. 

"I have already ordered James to have the grounds 
searched for the man," she answered, resolutely. 

"I've 'phoned the gardener to find him," he rejoined, 
with exceeding meekness. 

And still the joy bells pealed forth their anthem of 
"Peace on earth, good will to men." 



78 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



ME BEING GOOD TORE CHRISTMAS. 



By Viola I. and Earl D. Wright. 



O, PSHAW ! it ain't no use for me 

To be as good as I can be, 

'Cause last year I's awful good, 

Brought in the kindlin' and the wood; 

Didn't tell no lies, nor swear. 

Run errands for ma most anywhere ; 

Even our preacher said Santa Claus 

*Membered boys that was good to their ma's. 

Why, last year my teacher was surprised, 
Said she could hardly b'lieve her eyes. 
For when she passed I tipped my hat. 
And kind of bowed, and smiled like that; 
I don't think Santa stopped to see 
If I was as good as I could be, 
Or else that little Jakey Green 
Snitched 'bout the pumpkin Hallowe'en. 

At school one day I set so still 
The teacher thought that I was ill. 
And sent a note to ma that night, 
Said : I seemed kinder stupid like, 

79 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

And thought p'raps quinine would be 
Just the proper thing for me. 
When pa came home to tea he said 
He guessed I'd better go to bed. 

And you ask what I got last year? 
Why, Santa Claus never came near; 
He went to Jakey's, just next door, 
And that's what made me feel so sore; 
'Cause Jakey wasn't good at all ; 
He's just the baddest boy all fall ; 
The teacher says he's just so bad 
She had to cry, she felt so sad. 

O, pshaw ! It ain't no use for me 
To be as good as I can be, 
'Cause last year I was awful good. 
But Jake got presents while I cut wood ; 
He was havin' fun, raisin' old Ned, 
While I was usually bein' put to bed; 
This year I'm goin' to let Santa see 
How awful bad a boy can be. 



80 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



WHEN THE CAVERN GAVE UP ITS DEAD. 



By Belle Middleton. 



"Sarah, what was that?" 

"What do you mean, Nathan ? I heard nothing." 

"Listen! Listen!" 

The sound of a dragging chain accompanied by the soft 
thud of bare feet came distinctly to their ears. The cold 
sweat stood on Nathan's brow ; he was a brave man. but to 
be awakened in the middle of the night to the music of 
clanking chains was a strain on his courage. 

Nathan and Sarah Kingston had a short time before 
accepted the position of caretakers of the old Humphrey 
house by the sea. The owner had frankly told them it had 
the reputation of being haunted, but they were poor and 
the salary offered seemed to them a princely one and sen- 
sible, practical Sarah hooted at the idea of ghosts and gob- 
lins. Nathan, too, was unimaginative and Sarah's word 
was his law. 

The old house stood on a point of land projecting into 
the sea, three sides surrounded by water, the ground sloped 
away until it was level with the water at high tide. Steps 
hewn from the solid rock led to the beach. The house was 
built by a man known as Mat the Smuggler about the 
year 1812. It consisted of six rooms built from immense 
logs ; underneath was a series of caverns connecting with a 

81 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

passage extending to the water. The smuggler carried on 
his business unmolested for years, using the cavern 
to hide away his goods, but one day he disappeared. 
Shortly afterward Captain Elijah Humphrey, master of 
the Marie, a small vessel trading up and down the coast 
appeared before the notary of the village with a deed to 
the house on the Point, signed by the smuggler, whose ab- 
sence he explained by saying he had gone abroad to live. 
It was rumored that the Captain knew more than anyone 
excepting the smuggler about the disposition of the contra- 
band goods. 

Captain Humphrey brought his wife and little boy, also 
one servant, a man who had formerly been mate on his 
vessel, to the Point to live. He soon gave the fisher folk 
to understand that he wanted none of their company 
Soon gruesome tales were afloat about awful happening? 
at the smuggler's old home; shrieks, moans and heart- 
rending cries were heard, also strange lights were noticed 
at the entrance to the cavern. About a year after he came 
there to live Captain Humphrey was found dead in the 
cave. There was a look of fear on his face, his eye- 
balls protruded and on neck and throat were ten blue 
marks as of ten bony fingers, thumbs to the front. The 
wife fled from the house, leaving it in the care of the ser- 
vant. The weird tales increased until the fishermen 
avoided the place, even pulling miles out to sea to keep 
from catching a glimpse of the Point. 

The Humphrey family tried intermittently to occupy the 
house, but in each instance the departure was sudden and 
the house was left unoccupied or in the care of servants. 
Every death occurring in the family afterward was vio- 
lent and always accompanied by the same signs ; On the 

82 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

face a look of horror and on neck'^and throat the print 
of bony fingers, thumbs to the front. 

Sarah and Nathan occupied the lower rooms, the upper 
ones being closed and barred. On the outside of the 
house, leading to the upper story, was a stairway of stone, 
from which the wooden banisters had long since crumbled 
away; directly underneath was a passage and steps lead- 
ing to the cavern, the door opening from the porch. 

They had been in charge a week when one night they 
were awakened by the noise of clanking chain. The foot- 
steps descended the stone stairs, the cHnk, clank of the 
chain as it struck each step keeping time to the soft thud 
of bare feet. They lay quite still; in fact, their very 
breathing seemed suspended in order not to lose a sound. 
The bottom was reached, the chain rattled over the plank 
floor of the porch, then down the steps leading to the 
cavern. The sounds grew fainter and fainter — ceased, 
then the air was rent by a wild, demoniacal shriek, fol- 
lowed by a dull thud and — silence. This was more terrify- 
ing than the nightmare sounds, but it was at length broken 
by the undaunted Sarah, who sprang up and ran to the 
dresser, lighted a candle and, turning toward the bed, said, 
firmly : "Come, we will see who is trying to frighten us." 
Receiving no answer, she bent over the still form of her 
husband and found he had fainted. She applied restora- 
tives, but when at last he opened his eyes it was only to 
close them again and drop into a deep sleep, as of one 
thoroughly exhausted. Sarah slept no more that night; 
she was sure some one wanted to scare them away in 
order to obtain the situation on account of the generous 
pay. 

When Nathan awoke the sun was shining and, of 

83 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

course, the occurrences of the night took on an entirely 
different character when viewed in the broad lignt of day, 
so he was his old, phlegmatic self and listened to Sarah's 
explanation of the causes of the disturbance and accepted 
her view of the matter. 

They went about their daily duties as usual, but when 
night came, instead of retiring, they put out the light and 
sat fully dressed, waiting for what might happen, but 
nothing happened, there were no sounds other than those 
natural to the night. Nathan succeeded in staying awake 
until shortly after midnight, when, overcome by the dark- 
ness and the soothing quiet, he dropped asleep, but Sarah 
never closed her eyes. The next night she divided into 
watches, Nathan taking the first ; this program was car- 
ried out for a week, but everything remained quiet and 
Nathan began to believe the whole occurrence had been a 
figment of the imagination and to argue in favor of un- 
disturbed slumber. It is true he slept in his chair, but 
this was not comfortable, for Sarah had seen to its selec- 
tion, and the back was high and straight, without pad or 
cushion. As usual, he was worsted in his argument and 
so settled himself in his uncomfortable chair for a nap. 
He had slept he knew not how long when he was aware 
of the ringing of a tiny bell ; the sound was so faint that it 
blended in with his dreams; he was fully awakened by 
the hand of his wife on his arm. The sound at first came 
from high above the treetops, floating nearer and nearer ; 
then ceased, only to begin again higher up. The atmos- 
phere appeared to be muffled, as in a dense fog, but the 
tone of the ringing was insistent and persistent ; there was 
no escaping from it. Sarah quietly opened the kitchen 
door, but there was nothing to be seen on the porch and 

84 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

nothing to be heard ; but the moment she re-entered the 
room the sound was again distinct. 

The next night the same thing happened ; then for sev- 
eral nights silence. Again they were awakened by the 
sound of a rising storm; the wind sobbed and moaned 
and shrieked as though all the powers of darkness had 
entered into it, and the thunder of the angry sea against 
the rocks below filled the erstwhile quiet room until it 
seemed as if the Moloch of Vengeance were assisting the 
legions of Gehenna to uproot the very rock upon which 
the house was built. The chaos of sounds would die away 
to a faint, heartrending moan, only to swoop down again, 
louder than before. They tried the fastenings to see if 
all were secure and Nathan, stepping to the outer door, 
opened a small crevice, when lo! all was quiet and tran- 
quil as a midsummer night's dream. On entering the 
room to acquaint his wife with what he had discovered 
his voice was lost in the shriek of the demon wind. 

Thus night after night their rest was disturbed, until 
Sarah, though staunch and brave, began to think that the 
spirits of evil had been let loose and were united to drive 
them from their stronghold; but always with the return 
of day she convinced herself anew that the whole dis- 
turbance was caused by the means of some human agency 
and her lips would set in a determined line and she would 
vow to solve the mystery. 

The phantom footsteps had not again been heard until 
one bright, moonlight night two months after their ar- 
rival, when they were again awakened by the clank of 
the chain on the stone stairway. Sarah quickly arose and 
hurried outside, followed by Nathan. There lay the stairs 
plainly visible, but absolutely empty; but there was no 

8s 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

diminution of the noise of the dragging chain. It ap- 
parently came down step by step. When it reached the 
bottom, instead of turning toward the door leading to 
the cave, it kept on around the house and down the steps 
leading to the beach. Sarah walked so near the goblin 
chain-bearer that had there been a real chain she would 
have stepped on it. The footsteps never faltered, but 
kept on to the water's edge ; then there was a splash and 
silence. Around them lay the moonlight and the shim- 
mering sea. They turned as with one impulse and looked 
each in the other's face, Nathan's pale and distorted and 
his knees all of a tremble. He clutched at Sarah's sleeve 
and, in a voice hoarse with emotion, said: "This is the 
work of the devil ; there is no use trying to fight against 
him; we must go away." 

Sarah stood perfectly still, gazing intently out over the 
moonlit waters, as though there she would find a solution 
to the mystery. It seemed long to the impatient man 
before she withdrew her gaze and fastened it upon his 
face. There was in her eyes an intentness of purpose 
which made him shudder, for he knew tliere was no hope 
of altering her resolve, whatever it might be. 

"Nathan, I shall find out what it all means before I 
leave." 

As she finished there was the faintest breath, as of a 
sigh borne past on the night wind. 

The next evening was oppressive, and about nine 
o'clock they noticed the signs of a coming storm. The 
darkness was occasionally lit by vivid electric flashes; 
each moment the pressure became heavier until breathing 
grew difficult. At last the storm broke — not a phantom 
tempest this time, but a real war of the elements. The 

86 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

thunder came in terrific crashes, and the sea and wind 
shook the house to its very foundation. Hark! During 
an instant's lull in the tempest there comes a new sound — 
it is the rattle of a chain ! Sarah rose instantly and, going 
to the dresser, took up a candle, putting some matches in 
her pocket. Nathan watched her with dawning fear in 
his eyes, and when she started toward the kitchen he ran 
to her, begging her not to interfere with the work of the 
foul fiend on such a night ; but apparently she heard noth- 
ing of his pleading, for she never hesitated or turned 
around. As she reached the outer door the rattle of the 
chain was heard disappearing down the cavern steps ; she 
started to follow, but Nathan, in a frenzy of terror, 
caught hold of her dress. But she went on, as if im- 
pelled by some irresistible power, and the torn fragment 
of cloth remained in his hand. He was dumb from ter- 
ror, tossed like a plaything between the horrors of Scylla 
and Charybdis, destruction either way he turned ; but his 
habit of acquiescence in all Sarah did turned the scale 
and he followed, trembling in every limb. The candle 
cast a sickly glare on the sides of the passage, but just 
as they reached the bottom of the steps its went out with- 
out so much as a flicker of warning and they were in total 
darkness, but Sarah walked straight forward after their 
invisible guide, her steps as firm and unhesitating as 
though she were walking in the broad light of day. 

The sound of the storm came to them more and more 
faintly until it ceased, and the only thing to be heard was 
the rattle of the chain and the shuffle of footsteps. The 
air grew damper and more foul as they advanced; it 
seemed to them as though they had waded through miles 
and miles of black darkness when, just as Nathan thought 

&7 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

he had come to the end of human endurance, the foot- 
steps ceased and the chain fell away with a crash that 
woke the echoes of the old cave, which swooped down 
upon them, only to die away to a soft murmur, then 
changing to demoniacal laughter, race back and forth 
overhead and finally die away to a sigh so low as to be- 
come inaudible. The absolute silence which followed 
lasted for only a second, but it seemed to the two listen- 
ers that centuries passed as they stood there waiting. The 
next sound which came to them was a grating, grinding 
noise, like rock rubbing against rock, and a new atmos- 
phere rushed upon them; this was icy cold and corrupt 
as of a newly opened vault. There appeared a faint 
gleam of light, no bigger than a pin point, which grew 
and grew until it was as large as the headlight of a loco- 
motive; in color it was an unearthly green. It would 
shrink, cower and almost go out, then flare up again. In 
a far corner there sat a ghoulish something, which had 
once been a human being, but was now nothing but a 
ghastly skeleton; around the ankles was locked a rusty 
chain, fastened to a staple in the floor. One bony arm 
was outstretched, the finger pointing to a spot on the 
wall. Sarah walked toward the place indicated, but just 
as she put out her hand to touch the stone the green efful- 
gence flickered and went out. Sarah's hand had been 
within an inch of the spot and without perceptible pause 
she continued to reach forward, but it came in contact 
with nothing; she stretched her arm to its full length — 
still nothing. For the first time her iron nerve was on 
the point of giving way, but she controlled the terror 
which seized her and, putting her hand into her pocket, 
found a match and lighted the candle, which she had con- 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

tinued holding in her hand. When they became accus- 
tomed to the change from the inky blackness they found 
themselves standing at the foot of the steps leading above. 
Mechanically they started up and, on opening the door, 
found the sun shining brightly, only a slight crispness in 
the air suggesting the storm of the night before. 

They turned with one impulse and looked at each other. 
Nathan's hair was as white as the driven snow, but with 
the exception of a great pallor Sarah seemed none the 
worse for her horrible experience. 

On entering the kitchen they found Godfrey Humphrey 
and his servant, who was a great-grandson of the former 
mate of the Marie. Sarah related everything that had 
happened since their arrival, from the first sound of the 
chain on the stone steps to the torturing experience of 
the night before. Godfrey expressed profound emotion, 
but little surprise, as he had long connected the myste- 
rious deaths in his family with the disappearance of the 
smuggler. 

Sarah volunteered to go again into the cave with them, 
but Nathan declared nothing would ever again induce him 
to set foot in the hideous place. 

The next morning, after providing themselves with a 
plentiful supply of torches, they started upon their 
search. The opening made by the sliding stone was 
found. This stone had been hewn out by the smuggler 
to exactly fit the aperture and was swung by an ingenious 
mechanism to move smoothly into place ; the secret apart- 
ment was used, of course, for greater security in case 
of search. 

The skeleton sat in the corner, but instead of pointing 
with bony finger to the spot on the wall, the arms hung 

89 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

limply by the sides. Sarah seemed by some instinct to 
pick out the loose stone, as it seemed to her companions 
an exact counterpart of the others. It was now easy to 
enlarge the opening. Inside was an iron box, which took 
the combined strength of the three to move from its long 
hiding place. With eager haste the lid was removed. In- 
side were diamonds and other precious stones, also gold 
coins from every country in the world. 

The wealth for which he had bartered his soul had 
escaped the hands of Captain Humphrey. 

As they finished the examination all three turned to- 
ward the horrific figure in the corner. There sat the 
skeleton of the smuggler, who in life had not hesitated 
to rob and plunder and who in turn had been plundered of 
life, and whose restless spirit had walked the earth for 
more than a century in order to bring retribution to his 
murderer. 

They turned with one impulse and left the sepulchre, 
closing the opening and leaving the bones of the murdered 
man to moulder quietly to dust and his soul to go at the 
appointed time before the Judge of the quick and the 
dead. 



90 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



THE CHIEF OF THE CHASE. 



By C. L. Kraber. 



(Incident true.) 

A RED deer lay in his bed hungry, 

Hidden among the fallen, yellow leaves; 

He was trying to sleep under a scrub-oak tree, 

His feeble thought alert to know, 

How to get needed rest and strength for the morrow, 

And his share of the tasteful sheaves; 

There was no other with a better right. 

Since his sires' good claims of long ago. 

What had he done in all his life that trouble 

Should come to him again and again? 

There was no pillowing his tired head. 

For his weary body no real resting place. 

The bitter plague of his life was a dreadful fear always. 

That was a real, vital pain. 

And, then, to his quick ear came a startling sound — 

For ! he must be the "Chief of the Chase !" 

The prairie chickens, with their tufts like wings up- 
raised. 
Showing a scarlet flush in their necks. 
Their far-away booming crow, or appearing so near, 
As they proudly strutted about. 

91 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

May have been heard in the burned prairie grass. 
Or seen as far lively moving gray specks. 
But hushed in wild nature's field, their story, 
With their own eyes, could not now be left out. 

The wild geese on their path in air, 

From lake and river to wheat fields for food, in fright, 

Spread wings upward again, gathering fresh speed, 

Hurrying back, not caring to stay. 

When they saw the discordance of things on land, 

And sought their native element in flight. 

Their notes of deep feeling and provocation, 

Went out over all, and far away. 

The keen eyes of the great hawk were witnesses; 

He had but one object in his mind 

Up in wide circles soaring sunward ; 

The deed below was too much for him to stand. 

The quails saw him and hovered closer. 

But they were safe, he had no care for their kind; 

Up there where he was, in a purer atmosphere. 

And so near a more peaceful land. 

Their faces at their holes, squirrels high and safe, 

Looked on little chipmunk in despair, 

And with their expressive signs "To come up higher," 

He soon had a better location. 

Tlie woodsy creatures all along the scene that day 

Held their breath in much fear and care. 

They were waiting for the spell to pass that would 

relieve 
And clear the situation. 

92 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

There was something like a low and gentle murmuring, 

In the purest morning air ; 

It was not alone the cattle, half awake, 

All so listless, chewing cud* for food. 

Pictures of patient creatures, for the breakfast, 

The man with the axe had to prepare. 

In a way common all the country over, 

And everywhere well understood; 

The expected, happy fellow soon appeared. 

As if he hadn't a single care. 

He soon had increased vibrations in the air. 

That was music very good to hear. 

He loved his neighbor as himself, "just across the way," 

He made all outdoors aware. 

Sung and whistled, so miles around 

Knew how and where he stood, particularly clear. 

He whistled v/hile he cut down through 
The dried and fragrant grasses in the sample heap, 
And while he kept in tune to the measures he beat, 
In unison swinging the axe above his head, 
Made noise enough to exasperate in that country 
Anything awake or asleep. 

The deer "got wind" of him somewhere, and his pres- 
ence there, 
All the wild ones would have said. 

*It is interesting to see cattle chewing their cuds ; they 
do it when quiet and apparently half asleep. It is a lump 
of food which they seem to swallow and bring up from 
their throats or stomachs, to chew at leisure, breath sweet 
meanwhile. 

93 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

The well-favored, young man, without delay. 

Near a barn, climbed up on a stack of hay. 

No time was lost in cutting it, to feed the stock, 

With a keen-bladed woodsman's axe. 

But he was nerved up to other sounds, for he soon heard 

The notes of a deerhound's bay, 

Following the trail of a deer close by, 

Nearly done for, desperate in his tracks. 

His hanging tongue and glazing eye 

Betokened his fate, if help was not quickly near; 

But his tired feet could not stop to let him think, 

For the nearer approach of the hound, 

All friends out of sight, 

The day might as well have been darkest night 

For the driven deer. 

And his fright was so great that his speed 

Was less and less at every onward bound. 

He saw the swing of the axe in the air. 

And into the hay, and on the stack the man. 

And he remembered what his parents had told 

About the teeth of the red-mouthed brute. 

Who was leaving no chance for the deer's escape, 

As forward he almost blindly ran. 

Why not always? 'Tis not known. 

The Great Spirit responded, there could be no dispute. 

Passing on by the stack, the loud-voiced hound went, 

More eager at the sight of the deer ; 

The foe and the deer, close to the man, 

And the watchdogs waiting their time of alarm, 

94 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Who would, if they could then, have troubled him, 
To their own shame, and not lessened his fear, 
But faith or the red deer's instinct, or reason, 
Revealed that they would do him no harm. 

Friends to him in need, the poor deer 

Was made aware that the "will and the way" were 

found ; 
The good work done, and almost hope against hope, 
By Superior help he was led. 
So that when he was "weak he was strong," 
In belief that defeat would come to the bawling hound. 
The driver be driven away, and the deer escape, 
As back to life from the dead. 

Does it not look more than "reasonable"** mind, 

As in the poor wisdom of man? 

Any question of judgment or faith ? 

That the innocent and well-nigh lost deer had found, 

At the last at his best, when he met with true. 

Superhuman effort in his plan. 

As with High help and slower speed 

He outwitted the pursuer at every bound. 

Outwitted the hound on trail, and returned him 

On his own track for his cowardice; 

For fear of his own kind, driven from his nostrils' scent, 

And never a surer trail. 

**A noted naturalist recently stated that animals are 
"reasonable" but do not reason. 

95 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Like unto the many so set in their craven part, 

He lost in sight of the prize, 

And slunk a long way back to comrades like himself, 

With downcast eyes and drooping tail. 

And as from one tract to another with anxious heart 

And hope the deer circled back, 

To his home in the pathless woods, where his mates 

In fear and faith timidly stood, 

Thanks to the man on the stack. 

But more to the curs that hated the lead of the pack. 

An affectionate union led again, 

By Supreme trust in Superior good. 

There was stamping of delicate feet and graceful limbs 

Were posed at success achieved. 

The buck and the does, and the beautiful, spotted fawn 

Were in spirit grateful indeed ; 

Every one's petition went to the clear skies. 

Where record was made and strain relieved. 

Poor things, they knew "Who noticed the sparrow's 

fall," 
And nothing could their courage impede. 

Touched the spirits vibrant, ready and willing chord, 
Where effort was not made in vain. 
Hushed the beseechings, where brave hearts and stead- 
fast souls. 
Among old forest trees conferred; 
When to the lowly, in animate nature 
Is freely given courageous strain. 
The intuitive blendings respond as peal of bells, 
To weakness of beast and bird. 

96 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Was it at all strange that somewhere near, 

A beautiful plan of rare design was made? 

And call it not unkind that a thoughtless lad 

Or comman canines should spoil a chase; 

But, rather, delight in their earnest demonstrations, 

As supernatural aid. 

Large benedictions to commonest things 

Direct, by more than nature's saving grace. 

Indeed, may there not have been in many pleasant places 

A "closet" here and there, 

And the "doors" of the forests gently "closed" 

For a while of hushed and thoughtful season ; 

While mute accents breathed out above, 

On the wildness of nature's spirit-laden air; 

From gratitude of beast and birds, 

For the "open reward" for very best reason. 



97 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



COMING TO WATCH TACOMA GROW. 



By Thomas Wickersham. 



There's where they sing about a haven they have found 
At the head of navigation, out on Puget Sound, 
Where you can hunt deer or bear ; row, swim or sail ; 
Where you can catch fish from a shrimp to a whale. 

(Chorus.) 

We're going, going, going, from the bHzzard and the 

snow ; 
Yes, we're going, going, going there to watch Tacoma 

grow! 

There's where the tide and all the railroads will meet ; 
Where the Chinook winds kill the frost and the sleet ; 
There's where the storms and blizzards don't come near ; 
Where the roses bloom, and lawns are green throughout 
the year. 

(Chorus.) 

We're going, going, going, from the blizzard and the 

snow ; 
Yes. we're going, going, going, there to watch Tacoma 

grow! 

98 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

There's where they have factories, with a dinner-pail 

brigade. 
Where all ships come to load for the Oriental trade ; 
There they have splendid homes, churches, schools and 

mills ; 
There they have seventy-five miles of paved streets on 

the hills. 

(Chjorus.) 

Yes, we're coming, coming, coming, like boys going to a 

show; 
Yes, coming, coming, coming, out there to watch Tacoma 

grow ! 

There's where you have good health, and the best climate 

in the world; 
Where you see ships from all countries, with their flags 

unfurled ; 
Where they have the grandest scenery you have ever 

seen, 
Where the mountain dross is snowy white and the forest 

evergreen. 

(Chorus.) 

Yes, we're coming, coming, coming, like boys going to a 

show; 
Yes, we're coming, coming, coming out there to watch 

Tacoma grow ! 



99 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



THE COURT HOUSE CAT. 



By Thomas Wickersham. 



Before we got that splendid, young Thomas cat 
The court house was full of mice and rats, 
And they were digging all round the court-house walls ; 
And now there is none left to hear old Thomas* squalls. 

You may abuse the judges, officers and all that, 
But curst be he who shall abuse our Thomas cat! 
Thomas went courtin* one night — told Stenso he had a 

snap. 
In the alley Thomas met his rival — my, but they had a 

scrap ! 

Thomas soon saw it was no time for fun or joke ; 

The rival licked Thomas, and one of Thomas* legs was 

"broke" 
For weeks. Jailer Stenso Thomas* leg did bathe and 

bind. 
And again we had as good a Thomas cat as you could 

find. 

While Thomas* leg was sore and yet in rags, 
He lay in jail thinking, and made some brags 
That when he got out again, and was good and well, 
He was going to give that other Thomas — well, he 
wouldn*t tell. 

100^ 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

When Thomas was well and roamed the court-house 

o'er, 
No mice or rats came in at any court-house door ; 
And if a stray one did get into court-house or jail. 
Our Thomas got him — he never was known to fail. 

Take warning, all mice and big, stray rats, 
For your lives' sake don't mix with Thomas cats. 
But poor old Thomas is getting old and gray ; 
He lays himself on Jailer Lincoln's bed and sleeps all 
day. 

Thomas is too old to catch rats or mice, so we set him 

free, 
And the rats and mice came round to hold a jubilee. 
All the boys in the court-house gave Thomas their last 

love; 
The jailers gave him chloroform— now he's catching rats 

above. 



XOI 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



WHEN I SEE THY CHILD. 



By Thomas Wickersham. 



When I see the sweet little maid, thy child, 
I know to be thy Paladin was my mistake; 

But when she gives me that childish smile 
I kiss her, but on thee no pity will I take. 

I kiss her, yes, kiss her, and never heave a sigh; 

For youth and childish love on her face I see. 
Yet, she has her mother's changing, brilliant eye 

That once flashed friendship to poor me. 

Thy family loves thee; that to thee I will impart; 

And I won't envy thee thy happy life or pleasant lot. 
Though ungrateful you are, I know in my heart 

I'd hate them if I thought they loved thee not. 

I think thou playedst me a cruel, Judas part; 

My confidence is broken ; our friendship is no more ; 
But thy poisoned dagger did not reach my heart — 

Merely made me a stranger, not welcome at thy door. 

Curs'd be the eve I met thee at that park; 

But oh, I dreamed not how thou wouldst make it end, 
Till, two months later, you stabbed me in the dark, 

And cut the very heartstrings of your friend. 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Had I seen thy pall-bearers place thee in a hearse 

Before doubt of me poisoned thy heart, tongue or 
head, 
My grief would have been more deep, with words more 
terse. 
Than 'tis now, when thou hast struck our friendship 
dead. 

Adieu ! — I hate to say the word — but fare thee well ! 

Twas thou who brought'st our friendship to an end. 
The treacherous wound thou gavest me will hurt a spell, 

But retribution follows the one who stabs a friend. 



IPS 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



THE AMERICAN MINERS IN SIBERIA. 



By John W. Kelly. 



Forty strapping miners 
With shovel, pick and drill, 

Were ripping up Siberia 
From mountain peak to rill. 

They broke into the treasures 
Below the frozen mold, 

Where the hoary, old Ice King 
Had stored his virgin gold. 

They drained the icy marshes, 
With mineral laden deep, 

And tore away the hillsides, 
Where silver was asleep. 

They 'wakened up the echoes 
In the efforts of their lives, 
Till they met the native daughters 
And had a desire for wives. 

Once married and settled, 
Their lust for gold had flown, 

And now the hoary Ice King 
Holds the treasure all alone. 

104 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



SONG OF A NOME PIRATE. 



By John W. Kelly. 



I WISH I were back in Nome, 

Where everything's so fleet, 
And the girl with the sunny hair 

Cheers with a smile so sweet 

(Chorus.) 

I wish I were a thumb-nail 
Upon her finger-tips ; 
Every time she'd brush her teeth, 
rd touch her rosy lips. 

I love this can-goods girl. 
Who lives in the Arctic town; 

For her Fd steal Aurora's shield 
To make her a wedding gown. 

Come all ye knights of the seas. 

Drink to my lady so fair, 
For to-day Fm away for golden Nome, 

To the girl with the sunny hair. 



105 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



ARCTIC SEASONS. 



By John W. Kelly. 



JUNE. 



No morning or evening 

Bounds the day; 
As the sun goes Vound 

The snow melts away. 

The streams have awakened 
From Winter's sleep, 

And down rocky gorges 
The torrents leap. 

The plains are mantled 
With grasses green; 

Wild flowers are blooming- 
Summer is queen! 

SEPTEMBER. 

Lower sinks the sun 
Toward the horizon; 

Faded are the flow'rs, 
And the birds are gone. 

io6 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Ice fills the ocean, 

The lakes and the rills; 
Snow has whitened 

The plains and the hills. 

The cold north wind 
Has found its sting, 

And throughout the Arctic 
The blizzard's king. 



107 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



MAUD BONNEY. 



By John W. Kelly. 



Pretty Maud Bonney lives out in the West, 
Beyond the sunset in the land of the blest; 

And never was nurtured a maid more fair 
In this land where God's granaries bear. 

Pretty Maud Bonney lives out in the West; 

A girl of the country, above all the rest; 
There the men are all true and fine 

And their women all are divine. 

Pretty Maud Bonney lives out in the West, 
A right merry heart has she in her breast, 

A-throb with thoughts of innocence, that's shed 
Like a halo about the dear one's head. 

Pretty Maud Bonney lives out in the West, 
Beyond the sunset in the land of the blest; 

Tho' I'm the last of December, she the first of May, 
I love her dearly every hour of the day. 



io8 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



THE SHADOW OF THE ROCK. 



By I. M. SoLEY. 



"Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I/* 

— Psalms 61.2. 
The pleasures of earth are all blended with gloom ; 
Their radiance is quenched by the shroud and the tomb ; 
Blest Father, who watchest with all-seeing eye, 
Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I. 

I know that oft crossing my pathway below, 
Moving sadly along, roll deep rivers of woe; 
Yet unterrible with fear, will their margins draw nigh, 
With my feet on the Rock that is higher than I. 

When on shelterless heads beat the pitiless rain, 
And pestilence stalks o'er the desert like plain, 
I will safely repose, while the tempest sweeps by, 
In the shade of the Rock that is higher than I. 

When I wearily roam where no clear waters burst. 
My tongue and my heart well nigh failing for thirst, 
I will haste where is found an unfailing supply 
To the great smitten Rock that is higher than I. 

109 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

I know when an oasis blooming is found, 
Where fountains and palm-trees like Elim's abound, 
That verdure is fed and those wells nourished by 
Hidden springs in the Rock that is higher than I. 

The summit is not gloomy, rugged and bare. 
For the sunshine of Heaven rests eternally there; 
My flight with the unwearied eagle's shall vie. 
To the top of the Rock that is higher than I. 

The armies of Satan will surely prevail 
Should I stay on the plain when their arrows assail ; 
But powerless the spirits of darkness pass by, 
While I cling to the Rock that is higher than L 

Thank God for dread shipwreck on life's stormy wave 
That the last earthly hope died, except of a grave ; 
For the wild billows breaking and hiding the sky, 
Washed me safe on the Rock that is higher than I, 

For the sinking one here to find safety, how blest ; 
The deeper the anguish, thrice sweeter the rest. 
Then haste, ye desparing, sin-burdened ones, try — 
The shade of the Rock that is higher than I. 

And when you have found it a covert secure, 
A fortress, which will through all ages endure, 
You then will forever cease, wondering why 
I thus sing of the Rock that is higher than I. 



no 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR. 



By L M. Soley. 



If we bury the year — the dear old year, 
Reverently, lovingly, move with its bier ; 
God's love hath looked through its eyes into ours. 
God's smile hath opened some buds into flowers ; 
Prayerfully, lovingly, bury the year. 

Farewell, Old Year ! for thou arc swiftly going 

Into the shadowy land. 
With whitened locks o'er thy dark mantle flowing, 

A volume in thy hand. 

For thou hast been a faithful record keeping. 

As thou wert journeying on. 
Of all our sorrows, of our weary weeping, 

Our sunshine and our song. 

Of all the supplications upward winging. 
To which glad answers came ; 

Of all the hours, which thou wert ever bringing,- 
In thy great Master's name. 

til 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Of all the prayers that have to Heaven ascended, 

God's love has answered not ; 
Of all the goodness and the mercy blended, 

So richly in our lot. 

Thou hast all there; how oft our feet have wandered 

From duty's path away ; 
How many gifts our careless hands have squandered 

Upon the world's broad way. 

How we have drank from streams beside us rushing, 

To find them Marah still ; 
And left life's river brightly, freely gushing 

From Calvary's hallowed hill. 

Farewell "Old Year" ! and has thy last hour taken 

Its everlasting flight ? 
As from a tree, the latest leaf is shaken 

By the autumnal blight. 

Passed on before ; your faithful record surely 

Might wake foreboding fears ; 
Before the judge you stand, the empanelled jury 

Of our departed years. 

Before his august throne we see you gathering; 

You guilty, guilty, cry ; 
The voice of justice, with a frown all withering, 

Is, "Sinner, you must die." 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

But now, the Pleader's voice is heard, ascending, 

We have no hope beside ; 
He Hfts his "nail-scarred" hands, our cause defending, 

And cries "Behold, I died." 

Justice and Mercy wreathed in smiles, embracing, 

With rising faith we see ; 
Their voices chime, all clouds and shadows chasing, 

Lo ! those condemned, are free. 

Then, though the volumes, which the years are holding. 

Their heavy burden bring ; 
Though each successive page in turn unfolding, 

Be marred and stained with sin. 

We can before His presence stand un fearing, 

Stand, when our cause is tried. 
For this, the glorious truth, our spirits cheering, 

The Great Redeemer died. 



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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



WISHES FOR THE NEW YEAR. 



By I. M. SoLEY. 

From life's glowing east to its lengthening west, 

Shall I wish for thee all that the world deems blest, 

Nay, but take life's cup, with its golden rim, 

Lift it up with strong hands of faith to Him, 

And ask it filled to the very brim 

With a draught, though it may its lustre dim, 

With a mixture His hand from life's grapes hath pressed; 

Such as to His wisdom and love seems best. 



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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



THE LORD'S PRAYER. 



A Word Acrostic. 



By I. SoLEY. 



Our Lord and King, the wonderful "I am !" 

Father of Immortality to man ! 

Which all the past and future now canst see, 

Art ever living, wert, and still shall be, 

In glorious realms, where choirs angelic sing; 

Heaven is Thy throne and dwelling-place, O King! 

Hallowed forever, may Thy name and worth 

Be to all those who dwell in heaven and earth. 

Thy name pronounced, while angels bow the knee. 

Name above every name — that sets us free. 

Thy kingdom seen by chosen three, we prize — 

Kingdom of heaven ! on earth we hail Thy rise. 

Come, Lord of Lords, create us all anew. 

Thy right to reign on earth is justly due. 

Will puny man dare to obstruct thy sway? 

.Be ours the heart to cheerfully obey. 

Done is the work — " 'Tis finished," Jesus cried, 

On Calvary, when He bore our sins — and died. 

Earth saw and trembled when the Cross was stained, 

As God approved His holy law maintained. 

It is our duty to obey His will — 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Is more than duty — Love constrains us still. 

In songs of triumph angels laud His name, 

Heaven shouts hosannas, ringing with His fame. 

Give us this day our daily bread and make 

Us truly thankful while we thus partake. 

This day is all that Thou each day wilt give; 

Day after day, dependent thus we live. 

Our lives, a debt we pay at Thy demand ; 

Daily we need Thy helping, healing hand. 

Bread still from heaven we pray thee. Father, give; 

And draughts of living water while we live. 

Forgive our sins, for Jesus' sake. Who died 

Us to redeem, when He was crucified. 

Our sins as scarlet, washed, become as snow ; 

Debts that would sink us cancelled thus, we know, 

As we the afflicted, destitute, befriend. 

We beg Thy mercy may to us, extend. 

Forgive, O Lord ! give what thou know'st we want ; 

Our peace and pardon, thou alone canst grant. 

Debtors to Thee, we ever must remain; 

Lead us to live so that to die will gain 

Us heaven, as kings and priests, to reign. 

Not for our sakes, for Jesus' sake we plead ; 

Into His arms we fly in every need. 

Temptation here on earth will soon be past ; 

But in Christ's strength we o'ercome at last. 

Deliver us, dear Saviour, and still give 

Us power to conquer evil while we live. 

From Satan's wiles and snares, O set us free ! 

Evil Thou canst destroy ; we lean on Thee. 

For sin and Satan both shall be destroyed ; 

Thine all the power in heaven and earth employed. 

ii6 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Is it for us, two worlds, such conflicts waged? 
The Prince of Darkness, 'gainst heaven's King en- 
gaged? 

Kingdom of Heaven we pray to come, it will ; 

The earth at last, with all its glory fill. 
Power and all glory to its King belong. 
And angel choirs ascribe the same in song. 
The Saviour comes! The time is drawing near; 
Glory to God ! ere long He will appear. 
Forever be His glorious name adored ! 
Amen! Hosanna! Blessed be the Lord ! 



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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



JESS AND L 



By R. a. S. Wade. 



*Twas sometime in March of the year 'sixty-six 

Or may be twelve months or so later, 
Unless I have got my old dates in a mix, 
The time when the lightning played one of its tricks 
And split our old shanty and scattered the bricks 
Reducing the timbers to kindling and sticks; 
We could not be in a more desperate fix 

Unless in a volcanic crater. 

The house, you remember, the spring we moved there 

Was hardly just what we expected, 
The studding and bricks in the walls were all bare 

And things were quite sadly neglected. 

It was at the best just a regular fright. 

The inside was perfectly fearful, 
We thought if we changed the soft-brick tint to white 

*Twould look just a wee bit more cheerful. 

The dingy old shackle we thought was too small. 

And hence we'd increase its dimension, 
We'd do it that spring and not wait till the fall 

To build us a little extension. 

Our cash account then was a little bit shy, 

And borrow we just wouldn't try it. 
And imported lumber was dreadfully high. 

So high that we just couldn't buy it. 

ii8 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Somehow Uncle Jess came around to our aid 

And when he and Father consulted, 
They soon found a way and arrangements were made, 

And no further worry resulted. 



A sawmill was running down there on the creek, 
Somewhere there quite near Uncle Jesse's; 

And so they arranged that inside of a week 
We'd start in or they'd miss their guesses. 



And then they arranged it as quick as you please. 
That precious old Uncle and neighbor, 

That friend in our need, said that he'd give the trees 
And Father could furnish the labor. 



Now, wasn't the precious old fellow a trump? 

And didn't he know how to play it? 
He gave us the lumber and he kept the stump 

What kindness could ever repay it? 



And I was the fellow that went to the mill, 
Yes, back and forth times without number, 

I hauled down a log from the top of the hill 
Then sailed for home laden with lumber. 



Most things of that day cling to memory still, 
Though Jess and I hardly were men quite. 

And though I'm not sure who was running that mill, 
It seems to me it was Joe Penquite. 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

And now we have skirmished and cleared up the way 

And come to the time of the story 
When two jolly urchins took part in a play 

That might have been tragic and gory. 

rd been to the mill and was on my way back 
And stopped as I passed Uncle Jesse's; 

I should have gone on, but alas and alack ! 
I own up, the guilty confesses. 

Ere long Jess and I were absorbed in a game, 
The marbles were flying and popping. 

But whether we won or we lost was the same. 
We recked not and thought not of stopping. 

But something was said or done, I forget what. 

And Jess like a tiger sprang at me, 
He got the true range and he measured the spot 

And like a brave urchin he spat me. 



I cannot tell now, I forgot long ago. 
Just whether I stood or went sprawling, 

But this I remember, as well you may know, 
I wanted to give him a mauling. 



The game was then up and the victory won, 

The story was suddenly ended. 
And I was clean finished and ready to run 

And deeply and sorely offended. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

I jumped on the wagon and hurried away 
Quite fearful that Jess would yet get me. 

And did not go back there for many a day 
Till care had quite sorely beset me. 

And now I will lead you a gay little dance, 
Somewhat in the style of carousers, 

And call to your memory an old pair of pants. 
Or if you prefer, call *em trousers. 



Perhaps you remember that John had gone west 

And stayed for a winter or summer, 
And when he got back he was pretty well dressed, 

And we thought that John was a hummer. 

And John was a hummer in more ways than one. 

But little we precious fools knew it, 
When we saw the surface we thought we were done 

But John could see clean through and through it 

John's wardrobe included a vest and some pants 

That I thought decidedly fetching, 
I thought they would wear out, without any chance, 

Without either shrinking or stretching. 

But just like the bank accounts we have to-day. 

According to my way of thinking, 
Those fetching old pants had a funny old way 

Of most inconveniently shrinking. 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

For some unknown reason they grew less and less, 

Perhaps 'twas the tailor that made them; 
John found them too small and he swapped them to Jess, 

If John couldn't wear them he'd trade them. 

But Jess soon found out he was in the same box. 
Those pants would hear nothing of stopping, 

They shrank till they came to the top of his socks. 
Then Jess too was ready for swapping. 

And Jess in his trouble came straightway to me, 

I told him, Oh, yes, I would buy them, 
I didn't know what kind of fit it would be, 

But still I would take them and try them. 



Those funny old trousers the shorter they grew. 

Somewhat as a man drinking cider, 
Grew just a bit thicker when measured straight through. 

They seemed to grow wider and wider. 



I got my old trousers and stowed 'em away, 
I stowed 'em and almost forgot 'em, 

And put on the shrinkers so brave and so gay 
And turned 'em up chic at the bottom. 



You have an old photograph hidden away 
Concealed from my nephews and nieces 

That shows the old trousers that I thought so gay 
And crosswise the jolly old creases. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

The suit was a pretty good bargain, but still. 
Though now it seems funny to say it, 

When we got around to consider the bill 
I didn't have money to pay it. 



And when the day came that I went to the mill, 
When Jess thought I needed a banging, 

That bill for the trousers was unsettled still, 
That bill on the hook was still hanging. 



I made up my mind on that tragical day, 
Though it may seem odd I should say it, 

That Jess should apologize ere I would pay, 
And if he did not, I'd not pay it. 

Thus things drifted on for some five or six years. 

Years full of hard labor and hustle, 
I felt little worry about my arrears, 

But Jess was developing muscle. 

The surface was calm and the sky was serene, 

And nothing appeared to be doing, 
However, beyond the horizon unseen 

A storm was all quietly brewing. 

I went on my way without worry or fear, 
But, gentle folks, that was a blunder, 

That storm was to burst from a sky that was clear, 
And burst like a clap of wild thunder. 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

One Spring Emma Kelly appeared on the scene 
And somehow it came that I met her, 

I thought her quite fair and not over nineteen, 
And somehow I couldn't forget her. 

So over I went and enjoyed her smile, 
And while in the house I was wooing, 

Just outside the yard there beside the wood-pile 
Some very odd things had been doing. 

For Jess was out there and was not sawing wood 

Nor whistling or singing so gaily, 
But with a stern look that foreboded no good 

He cut him a solid shillaly. 

And out in the woods with a dangerous look 
He stood near the road to waylay me, 

He'd get me at last and he'd bring me to book, 
I'd settle the bill or he'd slay me. 

I finished my call and was going away. 

Was mounted and ready for riding, 
When Uncle Jess called me and came out to say 

That Jess was out there and in hiding. 

He told me the rest in a voice plain and clear 

And with no suggestion of honey. 
Then said in a voice that was rather severe: 

"Why haven't you paid him his money?" 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

The thing was so boldly and suddenly sprung 
That I was just half way dumbfounded. 

My nerves for a moment were half way unstrung, 
I feared that Jess had me surrounded. 

I told Uncle Jess in a straightforward way, 
But not with much snap did I say it, 

That Jess must apologize ere I would pay, 
And then, and no sooner, I'd pay it. 

And then I could see the wild storm in the skies, 
The dear man was mad and I knew it, 

He said, as I saw there was fire in his eyes : 
"Well, now sir, he never will do it!" 

In substance he plainly proceeded to say, 

I like you and will not desert you. 
You'd better go home by a roundabout way. 

He's mad and I fear he will hurt you. 

Just then I was anxious to go in a rush. 

For I didn't want a good baiting, 
And glanced quite uneasily down at the brush 

Where Jess and his club were in waiting. 

I knew an old road running to the northeast, 
Just then any road was worth trying, 

I tightened the rein and I spurred up the beast 
And down through the woods I went flying. 

I2S 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

When Uncle Jess brought me to book for the bill 

And scored me for having delayed it, 
To save me from getting another good grill 

I didn't wait long till I paid it. 

I think it was Father delivered the cash, 

I well know that I didn't take it, 
That would have been baring my head to the lash 

Or daring a fellow to break it. 

There comes a sad day into every one's life, 

Unless he's a wee bit celestial, 
That leads into ways of contention and strife, 

Or ways a wee bit more terrestrial. 

I think my bent toward those devious ways 
Must always have been quite potential. 

And oft when 1 think of my bloody forays 
It seems to have been pestilential. 

My story is done, for the sequel ask Reese, 
For he knew the thing needed righting, 

And he volunteered to negotiate peace 
Or Jess and I would have died fighting. 



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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



A NIGHT IN 1865. 



By R. a. S. Wade. 



Prelude. 



Oh, sing me the songs of the dear olden time, 

The songs of a measure so cheery ; 
So rousing the music, so merry the rhyme, 
So ringing and joyous the jingle and chime, 
So hopeful the heart when the hill was to climb. 
We gazed at its heights with a faith all sublime, 

And thought not to faint or grow weary. 



Oh, give me the days of the long, long ago. 

The days without touches of sadness ; 
The days when we dreamed not of sorrow or woe. 
The days when the spirit was all in a glow, 
When warmly and wildly the blood was aflow. 

When earth was rose-tinted with gladness. 
iy 

Oh, give me the hours when our childhood was nigh, 

When pleasant and safe was the sailing. 
When never a storm-cloud was seen in the sky, 
And never the heart was disturbed with a sigh. 
When smoothly and safely the moments could fly, 
And calmly, serenely the seasons went by 
When happiness came without failing. 

127 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Oh, bring me the friends of the long ago day, 

The friends that were true and confiding; 
Sweet memories of them in a fadeless array- 
Abide in my heart and I bid them to stay ; 
Oh, theirs is the friendship that fades not away, 
The friendship that's true and abiding. 

Oh, bring me the loved ones that then were so near, 

Whose warm and affectionate greeting 
In tenderest cadences fell on the ear, 
Relieved every sorrow and dried every tear, 
Whose greeting so dear we shall never more hear 
Till hearts shall have ceased from their beating. 



THE NIGHT. 

'Twas early in March in the year *sixty-five. 

To be more exact, the first Sunday, 
I yoked up the oxen and started to drive 
To Cooper and thought that if I was alive 
And did not get lost or break down, I would strive 
To cover the distance and may be arrive 

Some time in the evening on Monday. 

Not sooner than one and not later than two 

I started northeast o*er the prairie ; 
The mud was quite deep and the roads were all new. 
The wet places many, the dry places few. 
The oxen were leary, I somewhat so, too. 
My whistling was chic but the ring was not true, 
I tried to be brave but I felt pretty blue, 

And vainly I tried to be merry. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

The road ran northeast to the house where Sam Shanks 

Had moved by the year 'sixty-seven ; 
Then north through the lane, then northeast near the banks 
Of streams without culverts of stone or of planks, 
Where mud struck the oxen half way to the flanks. 
Then north by the church that stands first in the ranks 

Of places that point us to heaven. 



To me it was only a church by the way, 

No more than a peach or an apple ; 
A place to forget in an hour or a day; 
So whistling a tune as I tried to be gay, 
I turned from the graves where departed ones lay 
And dreamed not how often our footsteps would stray 
In winter's wild storm or in blossoming May, 

Back to our dear Blackwater Chapel. 



I traveled along at a time-killing pace, 

All thought of celerity scorning, 
I figured but little with time or with space. 
For there was no need to make much of a race 
To get before dark to Tom Sitlington's place 

Where I was to stop till the morning. 



Right here I presume it is proper to state 

The oxen — our old Tom and Jerry — 
Were pokey and slow and they went such a gait 
That it was my sad and unfortunate fate 
To reach the Tom Sitlington farmhouse so late 
That darkness was over the prairie. 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

The Sitlingtons, then, I remember full well. 

Lived south of the road quite a distance, 
Twas almost a quarter, I cannot just tell. 
And just by the road there meandered pell mell 
A branch that long after a long rainy spell 
When rain in unusual quantities fell, 
Flowed on in surprising persistence. 

The road that turned off there, that I was to take. 

Was plain as the nose on your face, sir ; 
I saw the house plainly, knew they were awake. 
The lights were all burning, — this tale is no fake— 
I knew it was Tom's, there could be no mistake. 
Yet *spite of all this, sir, and this takes the cake, 
I knowingly, willfully made such a break — 
Drove on by the Sitlington place, sir. 

The sky was all murky, the clouds growing blacky 

The wind was just howling and wailing; 
A leaky old overcoat covered my back, 
I'd nothing to eat, not a bite of hard tack. 
But giving the oxen a pretty sharp whack 
1 tried to decide as I followed the track 
How soon 'twould be raining or hailing. 

You probably think I should stop and explain 

This very unique situation ; 
I fear explanation will all be in vain. 
You likely will think that I hardly was sane, 
I therefore will give you in words that are plain 

A still more unique explanation. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

I stopped at a neighbor's just back on the way 

To get some desired information ; 
He gave it quite kindly, then went on to say 
That Sitlington's daughter had married Ihrit day, 
That quite a big crowd of the young and the gay 
Were meeting that evening to finish the play; 
The house was all lighted to make a display, 
The guests were all gathered in brilliant array, 

And I? I had no invitation. 

But that didn't matter, as well you may know ; 

I knew it would be an intrusion, 
And I was quite awkward, and bashful, and slow, 
And how in the world could a poor fellow go. 
All muddy, unkempt, and the picture of woe. 
To mingle with matrons, young ladies and beaux? 
I made up my mind and I flatly said no, 

And wouldn't revise my conclusion. 

I felt all broke up, I could hardly tell why, 

I wavered in doubt and vexation ; 
I looked at the branch that meandered close by, 
1^ might not be deep, but I'd rather not try, 
I looked at the house, then I looked at the sky, 
I thought of the night and I heaved a deep sigh, 
I whipped up the beasts and I mosied right by. 

So there's my unique explanation. 

Down close to Sam Sprecher's I stopped in a lane, 

Got out and unhitched Tom and Jerry; 
I fed them and fastened them tight with a chain 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

And said we were there and we there would remain 
Till daylight was come, if it rained let it rain, 
But there we would camp and be merry. 

I got in the wagon, rolled up in a lump, 

And wondered what next would be doing. 
I wouldn't have given a tiddle-de-dump 
To send the stocks downward or up with a jump, 
For I was beginning to feel like a chump, 
And guessing the weather would soon play a trump 
I feared it would show us a pretty bad slump, 
For something appeared to be brewing. 



I sat up awhile, then lay down on the seat. 

But found it too short and too narrow; 
I buttoned my coat and I drew up my feet. 
And thus I made ready for snow or for sleet, 
Well knowing whatever might come I should meet. 
Must swallow the bitter along with the sweet. 
But wished I had been just a mite more discreet. 
While ceaselessly, coldly the southeast wind beat 
Until I was chilled to the marrow. 



At last I grew weary and dropped ofif to sleep, 

And left my regrets and complaining. 
How long dear old Somnus was minded to keep 
Me wrapt in a slumber so dreamless and deep 
That nought could awake me to worry or weep 
I know not, but know that I felt pretty cheap 
On waking to find it was raining. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Sometimes it is best that we do what we do 

At once and not wait for reflection, 
So down from that seat in a jiffy I flew, 
Got under it quick, 'twas the best that I knew, 
Lay down on my side as the rain trickled through, 
While wondering if ever a chap was so blue, 

Then fell into sad retrospection. 

I lay there as grumpy as any old mule 

Within Uncle Sam's whole dominion, 
I figured in logic of every known school, 
I figured by every logician-made rule, 
And there as I lay with my side in a pool, 
While inwardly hot although outwardly cool, 
I wisely concluded that I was a fool. 
And never have changed my opinion. 

It likely would tire you if I should relate 

The thoughts that fought wildly for voicing; 
But ere I shall close I quite briefly will state 
That all I could do was to lie there and wait, 
Reproaching myself and bewailing my fate 
Till morning should come and the clouds dissipate. 
I went to Sam Sprecher's, my breakfast I ate, 
The coffee, the ham, and the biscuits were great, 
Then sadder, some wiser, a little bit late, 
I went on my way at the same steady gait, 
But with precious little rejoicing. 
ID, 17, '07. 



133 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

OLD SUMACI-L 
By R. a. S. Wade. 



Oh ! sumach, dear sumach that stood by the wood, 

Where prairie and wood came together ; 
How precious the spot where the old shackie stood, 
^Way back in the days when the people were good. 
When people delighted to live as they should, 
As people could live at this day if they would, 
The days when we had all the fun that we could, 

No matter how stormy the weather. 

There bonnie dear Tom wore a white overcoat, 
My pants were of jeans bright and yellow; 

And Sam's jolly smile always captured the vote, 

And with his red hair was a sure antidote 

To blues and the like in those dear days remote, 
For Sam was a jolly good fellow. 

I went to their home and we studied at night 

And toiled o'er the work of the morning; 
For Tommy was always so quick and so bright 
He'd capture a thought when 'twas clear out of sight 
And show us dull boys we were not in the fight. 
He cleared up the way and he let in the light, 
He brought down the game and he brought it down right 

With never a moment of warning. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

And close by my side all the long winter through 

Sat Joe with a heart warm and tender ; 
More genial each day and more joyous he grew, 
And closer and closer together we drew, 
Cut capers and didoes as boys always do, 
Cut holes in the wall so the road we could view. 
Cut Gordian knots and our book covers, too. 
And labored with tenses and gender. 

There ne'er was a boy with a heart in his breast 

More genial, more loving, no, never ; 
He gave to the world what was brightest and best, 
A 'word and a smile to the sore and distressed, 
With bonnic good cheer his whole soul was possessed ; 
None ever was sad when dear Joe was his guest. 
Dear Joe who is now in the Mansions of Rest 

Where brightness and cheer dwell forever. 

And then there was Polk, dear delightful old Polk, 

With smiles and with dimples a plenty; 
The handsomest man among all our dear folk. 
The boy against whom ne'er a word was e'er spoke. 
The boy with a character sturdy as oak. 
The man, I opine, who has never gone broke, 
(Dear bonnie old fellow, I'm speaking no joke. 
So can't you just loan me a twenty?) 

And Mattie was there, speak the word soft and low, 

Lest others than angels should hear it ; 
Fair Mattie that only the angels may know. 
Too gentle to tarry with mortals below. 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

She went when the earth was white-mantled with snow» 
She went where the rarest and fairest ones go. 
So pure and so gentle her spirit. 

And Bettie, so quiet, so noble and true, 

And Emma so bright and so clever; 
And Lizzie, so bonnie, with eyes that were blue, 
Her beautiful sister who came there once, too, 
Oh ! she was the fairest — but this will not do, 
For this is a story I'll never tell you. 

For love or for money, no, never. 

And Robert, dear Robert, magnificent boy, 

A boy wholly given to duty; 
A boy in whose heart there was nought of alloy. 
Whose whole aim it was to disseminate joy. 
The right to build up and the wrong to destroy, 
And never to hinder, to vex or annoy, 

A life unsurpassed in its beauty. 

And William, my best friend of all in that day, 

A friend, too, of all round about him ; 
We roamed in the wood when our spirits were gay. 
We sat side by side when the rest were at play. 
We walked in affection that nothing could stay, 
Till death's cruel summons called William away, 

And lone has the way been without him. 

Oh ! jolly old rollicking, rickety shack. 
The dearest old spot on the planet ; 
The place of all places to which I look back. 
Where even the slowest went lickety-whack ; 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Vd rather tread there though 'twere long gone to rack 
Than dwell at the top of a sky-scraping stack 
Constructed of marble and granite. 

Oh ! jolly old weather-stained, storm-beaten shack, 

With sumach and hazel brush near it; 
With boards up and down and a strip on each crack, 
Though roasting in front while we froze at the back ; 
There all was contentment with nothing to lack, 

A thousand sweet memories endear it. 

Oh ! glad were the days when we knew the old shack. 

And dear were the hearts that were in it ; 
The Doctor possessed the desirable knack 
To win every heart though his rule was not slack, 
We always pushed forward and never turned back, 
We pulled for dear life every minute. 

The Doctor, well posted and sharp as a tack, 

Detested a sham or a swindle ; 
When noon-day was come and we'd eaten our snack 
And finished the hour with our racket and clack. 
And Doctor was ready to summon us back 
He took down a stick that he kept on a rack 
And larruped the side of the bonnie old shack. 
And larruped again with a lickety-whack 

Till in we came lickety-brindle. 

Oh ! riproaring, racy, delightful old shack, 

Where never was envy or scorning ; 
Not far from threescore now, alas and alack, 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Our weary old burdens we soon shall unpack, 
And enter the valley whence no one comes back, 
To sleep till that glorious morning. 

And oh ! when we wake, when we wake may we sec, 

Up there where no more we shall sever. 
Among the bright mansions for you and for me, 
One dear little shackie, so bonnie and wee. 
With holes in the walls and a boy full of glee, 
A fair little maiden from sorrow set free. 
And dear ones to dwell in that home that shall be. 
To dwell there forever and ever. 

Dear vanished old sumach and vanishing crowd. 

How tender the ties that then bound us ; 
Away from the giddy, the gay and the proud. 
Away from the learned, the wise and endowed. 
Away from earth's symphonies swelling and loud. 
We soon shall have nought but the pall and the shroud, 
With shadows and darkness around us. 

How warm are our hearts and the feelings that swell, 

How tender the ties that still bind us; 
We'll soon reunite and forever shall dwell 
With loved ones redeemed, oh, glad story to tell, 
And dwelling with Him who all things doeth well, 

Leave shadows and darkness behind us. 

The years that have fled since the long ago day 

We left the old schoolhouse in sorrow, 
The friends kind and true that have vanished away 
Like flowers that blossom so soon to decay, 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

The hearts that in winter are warm as in May, 
That cling to us fondly for yea or for nay. 
All may be forgotten, but sumach will stay 
And live in our memories forever and aye. 
Whatever befall us to-morrow. 

How dim and uncertain the vista appears 

Back where the dear schooldays are sleeping ; 
The whole way is strewn with the wreckage of years, 
Unrealized hopes and unjustified fears, 
With laughter and joy and with sorrow and tears. 
With sunlight, with shadows and weeping. 

Oh ! springtime of life, precious heyday of youth. 

Thy flowrets forever are faded ; 
We sigh for their fragrance, but vainly, in sooth. 
Till all be renewed in the Gardens of Truth 

In realms that death never invaded. 

And now as I listen it seems that I hear, 

While for the old days I am sighing. 
An echo of music so sweet to the ear, 
As softly it floats from that far-away year. 
Awaking old memories tender and dear 
Of loved ones then youthful but now in the sere ; 
The music is silent, bereft of its cheer. 

And soon will the echoes be dying. 

The beauty of morning long, long ago fled. 

The shadows of evening are growing; 
The moments of springtime and summer are sped, 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Ere long will the winter frosts fall on the head, 
Ere long shall we hear the grim harvester's tread 
And reap, as a sage has so truthfully said, 
The harvest we long have been sowing. 

And now I must bring this long scrawl to a close, 

And send it along or else burn it ; 
And which would be better the dear only knows; 
I guess, though, I'll risk it, so forward it goes, 
Away from the land of content and repose. 
Where nature her beauty so richly bestows, 
Away from the land where the orange tree grows. 
The land of the lily, the land of the rose, 
Away through the poppy fields, over the snows, 
To where our old sumach friends, half the year froze. 
The other half dream of some worse kind of woes; 
If for your old chummies your friendship still glows. 
And warmly the tide of aflfection still flows, 
Send onward this letter the way the wind blows; 
But if my good plan you're inclined to oppose, 
And if at this letter you turn up your nose. 

Then wrap the thing up and return it. 
4, I, '06. 



140 



BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 



THE HOME ON THE HILL. 



By R. a. S. Wade. 



Yes, I recognize the old home 'mid the trees 
Where cedars and maples are growing, 

Where oft I sat watching the birds and the bees 
While soft summer breezes were blowing. 

Where often I sat when the earth was in bloom 
And dreamed of the years that were coming, 

Or pensively lay and inhaled the perfume 
And heard the gay grasshopper drumming. 

We gazed at the glorious tints of the dawn 
And saw the whole heavens illuming, 

Or followed the butterfly over the lawn 
And out where the clover was blooming. 

Where once a gay apple seed flipped out and sped 

At J. S.'s noggin and spat it; 
He said that I hit not a hair of his head, 

No wonder, just run and look at it. 

'Twas late in the winter, eighteen sixty-three, 
Or when early March winds were blowing 

The year my wild oats grew as high as could be 
And yet never paid for the sowing. 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

And I am not sure that it ever does pay, 
But when we are young we don*t know it. 

We seek for the crop we can garner to-day 
And have a good time while we sow it. 



But here I am preaching a sermon to you, 

Excuse me, I didn't intend it, 
That ill would repay you for that pretty view 

When you were so kind as to send it. 

Twas March, as I said, may be earlier still, 
And I was fifteen and quite merry, 

The first time I saw that old home on the hill 
Then standing quite out on the prairie. 



The house was of logs — this is only a guess- 
Just such as the writer was born in, 

I think it was logs, go ask Mr. J. S., 

Like those we sometimes put the corn in. 



But logs or no logs it was there all the same, 
And kept the wee family together. 

And whether of logs, or of brick or of frame 
It kept out the wind and the weather. 



And south of the house was the old roadway thea 
And west of the house was the stable, 

The farming land was— well, I just dinna ken, 
I've gone just as far as I'm able. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

But east, north and west there arose on the sight 
The boundless, the billowy prairie, 

When in from the west I came driving one night 
An ox team, our old Tom and Jerry. 

The lad that was with me, the son of a gun, 

Was jovial and genial and jolly, 
And always was ready to join in my fun 

And often, alas, in my folly. 

The house was quite full of forlorn refugees, 
But still they made room for my Aunty, 

But Newton and I could lodge under the trees 
Or hike for another man's shanty. 



Imagine, Rowena, "Stay out in the breeze" 
That softly was blowing a warning, 

"Stay out on the prairie, stay out if you freeze. 
And wait for the dawn of the morning." 



They didn't say that but they might just as well, 
They said they were just overflowing. 

And we saw the rest, there was no need to tell. 
So we said we'd better be going. 



Down east we saw nought but the tops of some trees, 

The rest was but sheer desolation, 
So we thought it better to stay there and freeze 

Than risk a far worse situation. 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

We drove in the barnyard and unhitched our team. 
Somewhere there just east of the stable, 

And ate a good supper with sugar and cream 
At dear Mr. Fleming's old table. 

Then Newton and I left the poor refugees 
And hied ourselves back to the wagon, 

And then to be sure that we wouldn't quite freeze 
We took a slight turn at the flagon. 



That turn at the flagon will keep bobbing up. 

So I will just stop and explain it; 
Though yielding in boyhood I toyed with the cup. 

Not once, no not once did I drain it. 



For Father advised me ere it was too late. 
Dear man, I meant he should not know it. 

And under his guidance I kept pretty straight 
And managed quite soon to outgrow it. 

And though I'm ashamed of the record I made, 
'Twas only three times I consented, 

*Twas only three times I was near the down grade, 
Yet forty-three years I've repented. 

'Twas only three times that I tackled the rye. 
Yet that was just three times too often, 

I always walked straight but I stepped pretty high 
And stopped ere I got to my coffin. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Sometimes I've been down and sometimes I've been up, 
And sometimes I've been pretty frisky, 

But since 'sixty-three I've steered clear of the cup, 
A resolute foeman to whisky. 

If not in my youth, then, ah, there is the rub, 

Good people, right there is the question, 
It might have come later and raised a hubbub 

And been of much harder digestion. 



Perhaps it was well that I journeyed that way 
And saw and escaped dissipation. 

For rising above it I rose there to stay. 
And live far above all temptation. 



Perhaps you will say as you ponder this o*er : 
"It might have been well to conceal it, 

You've kept your own counsel four decades or more 
What good does it now to reveal it?'* 

Perhaps you are right and perhaps I am wrong, 

At any rate I will not press it. 
But when we get tripped as we journey along. 

It humbles our pride to confess it. 

I knew you good people would shy at the tale 

About that suspicious old flagon. 
And now I've explained I'll go back to the trail, 

Where were we? — Oh, yes, at the wagon. 

145 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

We found an old sheepskin, some carpets and traps, 
Though limited somewhat in number, 

And you may be sure we were pretty cold chaps 
When finally ready for slumber. 

In fixing our bed of the old household truck 

We did just the best we were able, 
Yet up through the middle there stubbornly stuck 

The leg of an old kitchen table. 



And sundry sharp corners were under our backs 

And divers old pots and a kettle. 
While March winds aforesaid blew in through the cracks 

And constantly tested our mettle. 



I slept and I woke and I wriggled about, 
I slept and I dreamed it was snowing, 

I shook till I thought that my bones would drop out 
While waiting for chanticleer's crowing. 



But Newt soon awoke pretty jolly and gay 
And cheered up my spirits all drooping. 

His genial good nature was all in a play 
And soon we were laughing and whooping. 



Thus gaily we drove all our sorrow away 
And wished it would nevermore find us. 

And then we were off at the dawn of the day 
And left the old farmhouse behind us. 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Just fifteen years later I came to that home 
And glad was my heart when I found it. 

And since then no matter how far I may roam, 
My memory clings fondly around it. 

Till sighing shall cease and the tongue shall grow still. 

Till spirit shall cease its repining, 
My heart will still cling to its friends on the hill 

As ivy clings close in entwining. 
I, 8, '08. 



147 



SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 



THE OLD DINNER HORN. 



By R. a. S. Wade. 



Oh, do you recall it, the little tin horn? 

Ah, well, very well I remember; 
When far, far afield in the meadow or corn, 
With spirit aglee or with spirit forlorn, 
Our labor grew near the fag-end of the morn, 
Of all earthly sounds to persuade or to warn, 
Its tone was the sweetest heard since I was born, 

In April, in June or November. 

Oh, glad was the heart and so swift were the feet, 

And blithely our spirits were flowing; 
The forest was gay and the flowers were sweet 
Whenever its welcome tones called us to eat, 

When that dear old horn we heard blowing. 

Sometimes in my musings I picture the day 

When first that old horn was set blowing. 
The bonnie wee girls that came in from their play 
And wanted to tote the new tooter away. 
Their dress not so modern and eke not so gay. 
The same girls whose heads are now sprinkled with gray, 

Who soon to their rest will be going. 

Or was it before any bairnies had come 

That olden time home to make brighter? 
Ere Mother's old spinning-wheel started to hum, 

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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS 

Ere trouble and toil were the chief of life's sum, 
Ere girlhood gave place to life's weary humdrum, 
Those years when her burdens were lighter? 

It may be our grandmother brought it along 
One day when she came with her sewing; 
While in from the hayfield were wafted a song, 
The ring of the crum-crick in merry ping-pong, 
The swish of the scythe in arms steady and strong, 
From where the haymakers were mowing. 

And whence came the money that settled the bill ? 

Or was the bill paid in hard money? 
It might be that Father rode over the hill 
Conveying an old-fashioned grist to the mill 
And eke to the store with a hearty good will 

Some eggs or a few pounds of honey. 

And when at the eve he came home from the mill 
And brought home the grist from the milling, 
He brought the old horn to his bride on the hill 
Awaiting him there with her heart all athrill. 
Dressed plainly in linsey with never a frill. 
But ready for cooing and billing. 

And then for amusement they tested it there, 

While standing outside in the gloaming, 
With hair-raising screeches and heathenish blare, 
Alarming the neighbors and splitting the air, 
And giving the cattle and horses a scare 
That sent them skyhooting and roaming. 

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SHORT STORIES AND POEMS 

Gone, gone is our grandmother, gone to her rest. 

Who chided us times without number; 

But chiding or blessing she did for the best, 

She did her whole duty at Heaven^s behest, 

She slumbers at rest in the Isles of the Blest, 

And peaceful and sweet is her slumber. 

And gone are the couple that stood by the gate 

And blew the old horn in the gloaming; 
They toiled for the bairnies both early and late. 
When young in their prime and when old and sedate, 
They went at the call, they submitted to fate, 
And long are the years to the bairnies who wait, 
And weary their feet in their roaming. 

And weary the heart and so dreary the day, 

And lonely the road we are going; 
And slowly the feet tread the long, dusty way, 
The flowers are dead and the forest is gray. 
The music is sad, touch the chords as they may. 
And hushed are the voices forever and aye 

We heard when the old horn was blowing. 

And gone is the horn with our halcyon days, 

Its dust with our lost ones is sleeping; 
It vanished away in the mist and the haze, 
Its echoes are dead, buried deep in the maze 
Of childhood's sweet land, where we wistfully gaze. 
As fade its fair heights in the sun's dying rays. 
While nought comes to us but our weeping. 

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